


A Certain Step

by Darkrivertempest



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Dancing, F/M, Gambling, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Suggestive Themes, Veela
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frustrated with the Minister for Magic and in possession of two left feet, Hermione is forced to take dance lessons. Under her instructors, she not only learns to move with grace, but gets more than she bargained for in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeesleyforDraco](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=FeesleyforDraco).



> Written for FeesleyforDraco in the the 2011 DM/HG fic exchange. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters and canon Potter Verse belong to JK Rowling and associates. I am in no way affiliated with Warner Brothers, JK Rowling, or Scholastic. I do not make any money from the publishing or writing of this story.
> 
>  
> 
> I thank my betas: Sotia, Mari, IBE and UniquePOV for all their help and support!

“Hola, Kingsley. It is good to see you once more.”

Kingsley Shacklebolt grasped the smaller man’s hand and smiled. “Likewise, Andrés. It’s been too long.”

The dark-haired gentleman, Andrés Sacerdote, Minister for Magic in Spain, returned his counterpart’s smile. “It is a good thing the war has been over for three years, is it not?”

“Quite, though I do love these Ministry get-togethers, I must say.” Kingsley grabbed a flute of Champagne that passed by on a platter. “I hear there’s a mean game of Skitgubbe being staged in the atrium…” He left the thought open for Andrés’ consideration. 

“Eager, are we, to lose the Ministry’s money?”

Shacklebolt laughed. “Who said I would lose? You must have me confused with someone else, my friend.”

“Ah, yes, perhaps.” Sacerdote smirked at him. “You couldn’t possibly be the one who lost five thousand Galleons on the Quidditch match between Spain and Ireland.”

The other wizard’s lips thinned. “That was a set-up, and you know it,” he hissed. “You consulted a Seer before you approached me for the bet!”

“But it was not illegal, so there was no set-up,” Andrés replied. “Plus, there was the factor of—”

“Hola, Papi!” 

A beautiful young brunette approached and interrupted both men, her arms stretched wide to receive a hug from Andrés. 

“Mi amor!” Sacerdote embraced her and beamed. “Kingsley, this is mi hija, Isabella.” 

Shacklebolt took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. “Delighted.”

Isabella blushed prettily and laughed lightly, batting her eyes seductively at the man still holding her hand before turning to her father. “I cannot stay long, Papi,” she explained. “I just wanted to give you the invoice for _Paon Deux_.” She withdrew her hand from Kingsley’s grasp and pressed an envelope into her father’s palm.

Upon opening the parchment, Andrés paled somewhat, but then collected himself. “Si, cariño, I will take care of it.” He smiled at his daughter, bid her farewell, and then turned with a mischievous glance to Kingsley. “You know Jules Laurent, the French Minister, yes?”

“Yes, the bloke owes me seven hundred Galleons, which I mean to collect tonight… if I find him,” Kingsley said, curious as to why the Spaniard was mentioning him.

“He is sponsoring the _La Grande Danse_ this year,” Andrés smirked. “Isabella is entered and favoured to win.”

Watching the young woman disappear in the crowd, Kingsley muttered, “Is she, now?” He shrugged nonchalantly. “We thought about entering this year, but we heard that the time limit had passed, and the contestants were chosen before we could submit an applicant.”

“Pity,” Andrés said with a sigh. “The prize this year is three million Galleons.”

Shacklebolt choked on his sip of Champagne. “What?”

Andrés grinned, knowing he had his friend hooked. “Laurent said he was tired of seeing the same whey-faced children paraded in front of him year after year. He wanted new blood and figured the only way to attract it would be to increase the prize.”

“Damnation!” Kingsley said and pursed his lips. “I don’t know how we could’ve missed that deadline!”

With a glance to the left and right, Andrés leaned in and whispered, “If I spoke with Laurent, you would need to give him the applicant’s name plus the entry fee tonight. If you can do that, I believe I may be able to pull a favour or two.”

Kingsley was ahead of Andrés before the latter had finished his thought, scanning his memory for any of his staff that had at least some inclination to dance. Rose DeWitt? He grimaced. She moved gracefully, but her looks were on the wrong side of plain. Patrice Cornerstone? Again, he mentally shook his head. She was pretty enough, he supposed, but her version of dancing looked like someone having a seizure. There just had to be…

“Hermione Granger,” Kingsley said suddenly and with confidence. He remembered that she’d danced the night away with Viktor Krum in her fourth year, and had looked damn good doing it, too. 

“From the Golden Trio?” Andrés asked with a frown. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Shacklebolt nodded. “She can definitely dance, and with some work, will look good enough to win three million Galleons.”

Spotting a tuft of bronze hair in the crowd, Andrés motioned for Laurent to join them. “You’re quite certain? You cannot withdraw your contestant once you enter,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, watching Jules approach with a swagger.

“The girl can glide, I tell you.”

“Mes amis!” Jules Laurent cried, clapping each man on the back. “C’est fête magnifique, n’est-ce pas?”

“Excellent, Jules, as always,” Kingsley declared. 

“Laurent, a word in private?” Andrés murmured in his friend’s ear.

“But of course. This way.” 

Kingsley watched as the two men secluded themselves in an alcove. Both of them were animatedly speaking with their hands; Laurent seemed to be disagreeing with whatever Sacerdote was pleading for, palms open in supplication. If Andrés was not able to pull this off, Kingsley would fire the person responsible for not having filed before the deadline, because the British Ministry desperately needed the money. 

After the war, the Ministry had been left in shambles, its largest contributors—mainly the Malfoys, Crabbes, Golyes, and some notable others—were either dead or in prison, and they had lost most of their best Aurors. It had taken at least three years for everyone to stop looking over their shoulders, waiting on some lingering effect of Voldemort’s death. Only after a prolonged feeling of safety had the Wizarding world at large decided to contribute to the Ministry, but by then they were already floundering, as Kingsley scrambled to make ends meet so that he could pay his meagre staff. 

Most departments were self-funded, through grants or foundations that were of interest to certain divisions, but he had to pay his own staff, and that of the Aurors. In a desperate attempt to find funding, Kingsley had taken up gambling, losing and gaining equal amounts during the past six months. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d told Andrés that he needed the seven hundred Galleons that Laurent owed him; he needed to pay his employees—which included Granger, Potter, and Weasley—back wages that he’d been promising them for weeks. 

Hermione Granger was his right hand, an _aide-de-camp_ if you will, and she made his life exponentially easier. If Kingsley was absent, and a decision needed to be made, Hermione was the one to ask for the seal of approval; he trusted her like no one else as she’d proven herself time and again throughout the years. Plus, she was dedicated, working weekends and all hours of the night if need be. 

Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley were his best Aurors, having been trained as much as they could by Remus Lupin, Tonks, and Mad-Eye before their deaths. It had been a sad day when Lupin and Tonks had been buried, their infant son wailing in the background the entire time. 

What Potter and Weasley lacked in finesse, they made up for in apprehensions, bringing in the more notorious criminals and ex-Death Eaters after the fall. Of course, there were several mishaps that Hermione sternly admonished them for, but it didn’t deter them from trying again… usually in a more foolhardy way. The three were still close, but in recent months they had all drifted in separate directions due to their work or personal life, though that applied more to Hermione than the boys.

Kingsley had remembered that Ron had tried, unsuccessfully, to start a relationship with Hermione, but she had seemed to become quite impatient with him early on. They had amicably decided they were better as friends, and had distanced themselves for a brief period while remaining cordial, only to later on appear at functions together when neither had a date. 

Eyeing the men returning from their discussion, Kingsley braced himself for rejection, still intending to remind Laurent of his owed monies. 

“This is highly irregular, Shacklebolt,” Jules growled. “And I am sure you don’t have the entry fee on you.”

“Use five hundred of the seven hundred Galleons you owe me,” Kingsley returned with a glare, challenging the man to repay his debt.

“ _Merde_!” Laurent’s bronze mane shook with his anger. “This girl, what did you say her name was?”

Kingsley grinned. “Hermione Granger.” He did so enjoy witnessing Jules’ discomfiture. “I see you’ve heard of her.”

“You’re doing this on purpose, Kingsley, to try and disgrace me!” Jules ran agitated fingers through his perfectly coifed hair. “Do you know how bad it would look if I turned away part of the Golden Trio?”

The British Minister chuckled. “How bad?”

“ _Baiser_!” Jules spun and walked away, but returned, pointing his finger at Kingsley. “She better be worth it.” With that, he stalked from the gathering, leaving several perplexed people in his wake. 

Andrés watched his French counterpart leave. “I must agree with Laurent on that point. Señorita Granger’s reputation to save our world is not in question.” He turned and looked at his friend. “Her ability to dance is.”

Gulping the last dregs of his Champagne, Kingsley nodded. “I have the utmost faith in her.”

***

“I took the liberty of signing off on a few time-sensitive documents while you were away. Minister,” Hermione said as she laid three scrolls on Shacklebolt’s desk the following Monday.

Kingsley huffed in irritation. “It’s not a liberty, Hermione, if you have my complete trust in these matters. In fact, I expect you to do just that in my absence.”

She sat opposite him and glared. “You know I’d never—”

He stopped her with an upheld hand. “Don’t waste your breath telling me something I already know. There is, however, a more pressing matter that I must discuss with you.”

“The grimace on your face is not reassuring, Minister.”

He wiped his brow and gave her a long look. “You know we are desperate for money…”

“You’re firing me?” she asked incredulously, immediately jumping to the wrong conclusion. “But I—”

“I’m not firing you, woman!” he thundered. “I need you now, more than ever.”

She narrowed her eyes at his fidgeting. “What have you done?”

Tapping his finger on the wooden surface, he queried, “What do you know about the _La Grande Danse_?”

“It’s an international dance competition, held in different locations every four years,” she answered, remembering what Viktor had told her about the event long ago. “Once entered, you cannot withdraw if chosen.”

“Is that all you know?”

“Well, only the most talented dancers enter, the honour of winning is prestigious, and while there is fame, there’s not much fortune to be had.” She tilted her head in curiosity. “I take it the tournament is being held this year?”

Nodding, he bit his lip. “Jules Laurent is hosting it this time.”

“Tell me you didn’t place a wager,” she pleaded, knowing his recent penchant for gambling. When he didn’t deny the accusation, she rolled her eyes. “How much and on whom?”

“I didn’t make a wager,” he said hesitantly. “But I have a stake.”

“Whom? And how much do you stand to win?”

“Three million Galleons.”

Her eyes widened considerably. “There’s never been a pot that large, Minister. How is Jules Laurent able to fund that?”

“He’s a wealthy man, Hermione,” he reproached. “His money has helped us numerous times in the past years.”

“Always at our expense,” she sternly reminded him. “How else do you explain that illegal shipment of Pygmy Puffs?”

“I didn’t know they were banned from crossing international borders,” he snarled. “All I knew was that his daughters were anxious to have a few. How was I to know Pygmy Puffs bred at a feverish rate?”

“You would have known if you bothered to look at my dissertation on the species,” she groused, crossing her arms. “It’s one of the few magical creatures for which I support population control because of their reproduction habits outside of their natural environment.”

“Meaning they asexually repopulate themselves until there’s no indigenous life left.”

“Of course, and quit avoiding the subject. How do we stand to get our hands on that money, regardless of how badly the Ministry needs it?”

“We’re entered into the competition,” he said swiftly.

“How is that possible? I thought the deadline passed a month ago.”

Crossing his own arms, he stared at her. “And just who was responsible for missing that deadline?”

She glanced at her frayed nails. “I thought it a frivolous expense, since we can’t even afford to pay our own employees.” Shrugging, she explained, “Besides, you never gave me the name of the dancers you wanted entered.”

Kingsley steepled his fingers and smiled wickedly. “Well, you’ll have a chance to rectify your _oversight_. Laurent has accepted my entry and is using part of the money he owed me for the fee.”

“What kind of strings did you pull for that to happen?”

He gave her a penetrating look. “I entered _you_ into the contest. He couldn’t refuse one of the Golden Trio.”

“What? Wait... why?” she gasped, blinking owlishly, trying to process why the man had thought her a suitable candidate. “I can’t dance!”

It was Kingsley’s turn to gaze at her in shock. “Pardon?”

“I. Can’t. Dance,” she reiterated slowly. “Why would you waste this opportunity on me?”

He shook his head. “No—I remember, Hermione. You showed me pictures of you and Krum, twirling the night away for the Yule Ball in your fourth year.” 

“It was a _Decorus Tripudio_ charm that Ginny Weasley cast on me.” Her expression grew horrified. “I’ve got two left feet!”

He placed his palms face down on the desk and leaned forward. “So have her cast the charm again, Granger. We can’t lose this.”

Fire sparked in her eyes as she stood. “Once again, you failed to read the fine print, Minister! No magic. _Period_. None is allowed at _La Grande Danse_. This is about pure talent.” Her lower lip quivered. “Something that I lack in appalling amounts when it comes to this.”

“It can’t be that hard to learn,” he posed, not really believing himself.

Hands on hips, she wavered between outrage and astonishment. “Are we having the same conversation? I can’t learn to dance in two months time for an international competition! Pardon me, Minister, but you’re bloody idiot!”

“Hermione…” he warned, glaring at her.

She threw up her hands in frustration. “You are!” She began pacing. “And how dare you use my reputation to gain money, no matter how noble your cause?” Her fists clenched and unclenched. “I’ll be the laughing stock of the Wizarding world.”

He came around his desk and grasped her by the shoulders. “Calm yourself, dear. We’ll figure something out, I promise.”

Hope lit her eyes. “Maybe I won’t be chosen, even though you’ve entered my name.”

“Erm, I hate to burst your reclusive bubble, but it was one of the conditions upon your entry—that you would be accepted for certain.”

“Seems you’ve thought of everything, Minister,” she muttered. “Except how I’m supposed to actually dance.” Shaking her head, she pulled away from her boss and friend. “I can’t believe you did this to me.”

When he tried to approach her once more, she backed towards the door, refusing to let him comfort her. He let his hands drop and, determined that she see this as an opportunity to learn a new skill, allowed the veneer of his role as her supervisor to take over.

“I’ll get the best dance instructor,” he swore, returning to his desk. “Just be prepared to study your bloody back end off until the competition.”

“Fine,” she hissed and opened the office door. “But I want it noted that I’m doing this under great duress… and I still think it’s a frivolous idea!” 

The slamming of Shacklebolt’s office door reverberated throughout the room, knocking over several knickknacks in the process. 

He buried his face in his hands and groaned. “Merlin help us.”

***

“I don’t bloody care what time it is, Maria,” Kingsley rasped through the Floo, later that night. “I need to speak to Andrés now!”

He paid no further attention to his friend’s wife as she ambled away to wake her husband. He never even paid attention to the fact that it was three in the morning, and that Maria was probably muttering some rather obscene things about his personage because of said time. 

“Kingsley?” Andrés yawned. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“I’ve got trouble.”

“Is it…” Sacerdote glanced behind him to the secure windows. “Voldemort again?”

The British Minister looked at him blankly. “Move back, I’m coming through,” he demanded, giving the other wizard no choice but to accept his arrival. 

“You better have—” Andrés started, but was cut off the moment Kingsley stepped through the flames.

“She can’t dance!” Shacklebolt cried as he paced in front of the fireplace.

“Who?” Irritated with the man’s presence, Sacerdote stood in front of him to prevent his worn path. “What are you talking about?”

“Hermione Granger. She can’t dance,” Kingsley mumbled.

“I thought she _glided_ ; at least those were your words.”

“Well, Miss Granger promptly disabused me of the notion the moment I told her about the entry.”

“ _Dios Mio_!” 

“My thoughts exactly.”

Rubbing the end of this goatee, Andrés swore again. “Foolish man.” He started pacing alongside Kingsley. “I met her once, your Hermione Granger. She was a determined lady, though a bit uncoordinated.” He stopped his flustered friend with a hand to his shoulder. “This is why I asked you if she was the one you wanted to enter as a contestant. When I met her at a Ministry function a year ago, I had to keep her from falling into the spotted ivy plant in the atrium with a strong arm on her elbow, and my shin has never been the same since.”

“I don’t understand,” Kingsley lamented as he moved away and continued to pace. “How can someone who helped defeat Voldemort be so ungainly?”

“Sit down, my friend; you are starting to wear a path in my very expensive carpet,” Andrés demanded.

Both men fell into blood-red leather chairs and sighed heavily. Sacerdote finally lit a fire to ward off the chill of early morning. “I have a nice Fonseca Vintage Port, nineteen fifty-five, I believe. It will go a long way to soothing our frayed nerves.” After summoning a house-elf with his request, Andrés poured them both generous portions. 

Sinking further into his seat, he began asking Kingsley pointed questions. He wanted to assist his friend in finding a solution; while his daughter was a competitor, he was confident that she would place far and above Miss Granger, and he had no wish to see the girl make a spectacle of herself. “How is it that you have not observed your employee being… awkward?”

Kingsley sipped his drink. “I don’t normally keep tabs on this sort of thing, if I must be honest. She is my friend, yes, but I’ve never had a better employee. I would be truly lost without her. I look at the big picture and tend to gloss over the details, and she keeps me, for the most part, from toeing the line by studying the finer points and reminding me of them.” He shook his head. “Circe’s toes, Andrés! I can’t let the girl fail. I’d never forgive myself.”

“You care for her,” his counterpart said gently.

“I do,” Kingsley admitted quietly. “She is very different from the others, keeps to herself, studies constantly—be it about a legal issue that we must try and sidestep, or an ordinance regarding magical creatures that must be thoroughly dissected before approval. She never seems to leave the office…” he trailed off and frowned. “Come to think of it, she doesn’t seem to have much of a social life, not even when Potter or Weasley visit.”

“A wallflower, perhaps?” Andrés purposed. “It is the way of some people. Shy, reclusive, uncoordinated, easily flustered if prolonged attention is focused on them. Isabella was like this.”

“But she is favoured to win. How did she overcome her reticence?”

Andrés coloured somewhat. “What I am about to tell you, you must keep in the strictest confidence, yes?”

“I am the soul of discretion,” Kingsley promised.

“Isabella is my pride and joy, my only hija,” the other man said with an obvious light in his eyes. “However, I am not so blinded that I could not tell that my precious one was a graceless menace on two legs.” He smiled indulgently. “Once, I watched her fall no less than seven times while crossing our estate.”

“Did she step in rabbit warren entrances?”

Chuckling, the Spaniard shook his head. “No, mi hermano. It was a paved, smooth road from the edge of the property that ran to the manor house.”

Kingsley frowned. “Then what did she trip on?”

“A pebble on the path? A caterpillar that dared to cross at that moment?” Andrés shrugged. “Who knows? But it was clear she desperately needed guidance.”

“What about her mother? Could she not help?”

“Maria is not Isabella’s mother,” Andrés admitted softly. “Sofia died in childbirth, and Isabella never warmed to Maria.”

Kingsley placed his half-finished glass of port on a side table, leaned over, and patted his friend’s knee. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It was over twenty years ago, and I remember my first wife fondly.” He looked at Shacklebolt. “She would have liked you very much.”

“I’m honoured.”

Andrés nodded. “For her memory, I will tell you this.” He leaned closer to Kingsley. “Knowing mi hija’s greatest wish was to dance, I sought only the best to teach her heart’s desire. But every instructor I hired quit after several weeks, citing she was impossible to teach. One went as far as to say that he would have had better luck convincing a house-elf to wear a tutu than training Isabella to move gracefully.

“I was at my wit’s end when I was told about an opportunity that had just arisen.” He refilled the now empty glass. “It was a last resort, you see,” Andrés explained, downing a large gulp of the smooth port. “There is an organization that takes one student every year and transforms these wallflowers into amazing butterflies.” 

“How?” Kingsley asked eagerly, sitting on the edge of his seat.

“I cannot say, because I do not know. Only the students see the instructor and his or her methods, as they are bound to a contract not to reveal their secrets. Then, students are sequestered for the year’s duration, emerging as dancers of the highest calibre.”

“I don’t have a year,” Kingsley said in a panicky tone. “I have only two months before the competition!”

Andrés studied his friend long and hard. “What _Paon Deux_ did for my Isabella is nothing short of a miracle.” He smiled thinly. “But she is not as she was before.” He paused for several moments, weighing the information in his mind. “Mi hija was always carefree and happy, innocent in many ways of the world. Now? She has a calculating gleam about her eyes, and she moves as a…” He gulped audibly. “Seductress. Dios forgive me; I had to let the groundskeeper go last week, when Isabella returned from her year abroad.”

“Why?”

“He was attempting to _accost_ her within the conservatory.”

“No!” Kingsley gasped. 

The dark-haired man didn’t bother nodding. “He cried foul, of course, saying she was enticing him with the sway of her hips and the pout on her mouth.” Andrés shuddered and closed his eyes. “And the worst part is, Kingsley, having seen her behaviour since her return, I am half inclined to believe him.”

“Just what kind of place is this _Paon Deux_ , that it alters a person’s behaviour so much?”

“Again, I have no idea,” Andrés asserted. “It is secluded, with access only via Floo, and that is if you have a reservation. Otherwise, it is completely blocked.”

Kingsley rubbed his temple. “That’s strong magic, friend. Borderline Dark magic.”

“I know. And I already checked; there are no compulsion spells, no Imperio cast, nothing but innate behaviour that causes Isabella to be this way.”

“How does one go about getting a _reservation_ to become a student with them?”

Andrés stared at his friend. “You can’t seriously be contemplating their services?”

Kingsley got up from his seat and began pacing once more. “I have to give Hermione that option, no matter the consequences. I feel guilty enough as it is for having dragged her into this. I told her I would find the best.”

“ _Paon Deux_ will change her. Neither you, nor Miss Granger, are prepared for what she will become.” 

“I promise to warn her before she makes her decision.”

Rising to meet him, Andrés said, “I know you need the money, but please reconsider. Would you sacrifice your hero and have her become _de puta_ amongst the people?”

“You don’t know how strong and determined Hermione can be,” Kingsley countered. “She is very self-aware, and it’s highly doubtful she’d prostitute herself after a few weeks of dance instructions.”

“No, it is _you_ who does not understand, Kingsley,” Andrés hissed in warning. “They do more than instruct in the art of dance. They will change the way she looks at herself, how she acts towards others, how she is portrayed to society at large.” He shook his head in disgust. “Your greed for money will be her undoing.”

Wand drawn, Kingsley pointed it at the other wizard, advancing slowly. “If you were not my friend, I would’ve hexed you where you stand. As it is, you will tell me everything I need to know to secure a reservation with _Paon Deux_. I cannot fail Hermione, and if this is the only way to ensure that she learns how to dance, then I must present her with the option.”

Andrés hung his head. “I will make the necessary inquiries, but for her sake, I hope she denies you.”

“Do what it takes.”

***

_Please accept this payment and signed contract as terms fulfilled. I know your organization only accepts new students based on recommendations from previous clients._ Paon Deux _has far surpassed my expectations in the transformation of my daughter, Isabella Sacerdote, so it is with great honour that I propose the unique situation of a one, Miss Hermione Granger._

 _As you are well aware, the_ La Grande Danse _is to take place in a little over two months time and, seeing as your students have won the last five competitions, my daughter hopes to gain your approval with a sixth win. I will not flatter you with false praise, as my payment should be proof enough of your abilities. Miss Granger’s employer wishes her to win the tournament as well, though I wonder whether you could produce a winner in a shorter span of time._

 _In conclusion of the contract, I advocate Hermione Granger to complete the terms of my daughter’s agreement. This will fulfil the obligation of the next student placement that was part of the bonded contract for_ Paon Deux _. Per your terms, once you have accepted Miss Granger as your student, you are required to release Miss Sacerdote from any spell that governs her behaviour, while allowing her to retain the instruction she received in dance. Also, in accordance to the contract language, neither Miss Granger nor her employer, have been told specifics of your identities or teaching methods._

_With all due respect, this concludes our business partnership._

_Sincerely,_

_Andrés Sacerdote  
Minister for Magic, Spain_

Smirking, Andrés quietly opened the Floo. “ _Paon Deux_.”

Since he was technically still a client, the Floo opened automatically, though no one approached him. Instead, he flung the sealed parchment through the green flames and quickly deactivated the hearth. Slowly, he made his way back towards his bedroom, his hands clasped behind his back. Shacklebolt was so desperate, but Sacerdote had to give a token protest to Kingsley procuring the famous company, finding it all too easy to sway the other Minister to his line of thinking. If Hermione Granger was as strong-willed as Shacklebolt purported her to be, then there would be relatively no chance she could win the tournament. He imagined she would argue about the instructor’s methods, thus ensuring little to no practical application. He smiled to himself. No, Isabella would win the dance.

Even if he had to manipulate the competition to accomplish such a feat.

***

Two pairs of eyes alighted on the slightly singed scroll lying in front of the fireplace the next morning at _Paon Deux_.

“That didn’t take long.”

“I didn’t expect it would.” A calculating gaze read over the words on the unfurled parchment. “Quite ingenious, that little clause of yours.”

“Agreed, if I do say so myself. Why not fulfil the contract while procuring our next student in the same go?”

A look of astonishment crept across the reader’s face. “That slippery little weasel!”

“What?”

“Read it.”

A second pair of eyes read the document. “Bloody hell!” 

“My thoughts exactly.” 

“Can he do this?”

“Apparently he can, and has. If you would fetch Miss Sacerdote’s contract.”

“ _Accio Sacerdote contract._ ”

“Bugger.”

“Indeed. I suspect the old man will soon be rejoicing the return of his meek yet talented daughter.” There was a noticeable hesitation. “Though, if we remove the enhancement, there is still the potential that she may retain some of the glamour.”

“How is that possible?” A hint of irritation laced the words.

A wave of a graceful hand, and a shake of the head, brought that line of thought to an end. “It matters not. What’s done is done.”

“I wonder if he realizes that she probably won’t win the competition now.”

A depraved laugh filled the chamber. “Let him find out the hard way. After all, only the truly uninhibited win this tournament. One cannot fake confidence.”

“Which is why we have a larger problem on our hands with this prospect.”

There was a long silence that permeated the room, as both parties searched their minds for a way to decline this latest assignment.

“Although…”

“What?”

“It would present a challenge, on several fronts.”

“You can’t be serious. Hermione Granger?”

“Quite serious. It would provide a certain credibility for the company that is not usually associated with us. Imagine, _Paon Deux_ as a household name in England. It would also smooth the transition into society when the time comes. I’m quite tired of being unable to return.”

“Gods damn it! Is her reputation made of fucking gold, that she is so untouchable?”

“Tut tut,” the older wizard drawled. “Such language. And control your temper. I won’t allow you to bruise Miss Granger like you did Miss Sacerdote.”

“Don’t blame that one on me! She _wanted_ me to spank her.”

“She had _Tufts Leather Goods_ emblazoned on her backside with as many times as you paddled her!”

The younger wizard shrugged. “She was a very naughty girl.”

“Enough. Draw up the contract for Hermione Granger and send it to Kingsley Shacklebolt. We’ll see if they’re serious once they have read our terms.”

***

“You look like hell,” Kingsley murmured two days later as he watched a distraught Hermione sit across from him.

“Remind me never to ask you anything with regards to my self-esteem,” she practically growled. “I look and feel like death warmed over.”

“I imagine you’ve had some trouble sleeping.”

“You suppose?” she asked with narrowed eyes. “I’ve only got the weight of my current responsibilities, the possible future of the Ministry, my reputation as the only person who can figure out the ever-changing combination of Severus Snape’s wildly intricate wards, and hopefully not forgetting to feed my decrepit Kneazle, resting heavily on my shoulders.” Rubbing the grit out of her eyes, she yawned. “Oh, and don’t forget: I need to find a way to save face while not falling on it for the competition.”

Kingsley gave her a sympathetic smile. “I think I may have found your answer for that.”

“For what? Remembering to feed Crookshanks?”

“No,” he said with a chuckle. “I just received a parchment this morning, confirming your acceptance at the _Paon Deux_ academy… erm, studio… uh, organization.” He looked a bit flustered. “All you need to do is read over the contract and sign it.”

“Dance instructions?” 

“Yes.”

“Then why do I need to sign a contract?”

“Look, Hermione,” Kingsley intoned, irritated. “This is the best of the best, and they demand a signed contract. I don’t know why, but if you decline their services I’ll need to start looking all over again and that could take months.”

“I don’t know how you’ve managed to stay alive this long without me hexing your private parts,” she snarled, her shattered state clearly loosening her tongue. “Let me see the contract. You know I don’t have the time to search for a reputable teacher.”

He handed her the heavily charmed document. “The terms are… interesting.”

Nearly two hours ticked by before she raised her eyes from the document, her mouth hanging slack as she tried to absorb everything that she had read. “Who are these people?”

“I don’t know.”

Her brows rose into her hairline. “You don’t know?”

“If you’ve read the entire document, then you know I have no clue as to anyone’s identity within the company.”

“You just expect me to pack myself off to… to…” She glanced down at the parchment. “It doesn’t even say where they’re located. And for two months?”

“They’ve produced the last five winners of this tournament; I’m guessing they value their privacy and keep their trade secrets under considerably powerful protection spells.”

“But you don’t even know who they are!”

Pressing the balls of his palms into his eyes, Kingsley sighed in frustration. “Hermione, you’ve read the contract. It’s a simple yes or no.”

“Is it? Then why are there three additional signature lines?” She handed him the parchment.

Confusion swept over the Minister as he read the extreme fine print. “Merlin’s hairy left nut!”

She didn’t know whether to snort or sob. “What?”

“The bottom,” he whispered. “Read it.”

 _This contract is legal and binding within the Wizarding Union. Any attempt to dismantle its properties will result in permanent loss of magic, no exceptions. Once the term length of the contract is fulfilled, the contractor and the student must sign the additional indicated lines, provide_ Paon Deux _with prompt payment, and furnish the name of another prospective student, or the contract will be considered to be in default. Any deviation will result in permanent paralysis of magical properties according to Magical Law, section 13;18, article 42. Should those parties involved wish to decline_ Paon Deux _’s services after signing the initial contract for tutelage, let it be known that the magical signatures of said parties have been recorded and payment, as well as the name of the next prospective student, will be required immediately. Failure to pay will result in permanent loss of magic._

“Minister! You… you…”

“I know!” He held up his hand to forestall her tirade. “And you also know we don’t have five hundred thousand Galleons to pay them immediately.”

“I can’t believe you’ve done this to me,” she seethed in a murderous tone. “I can’t be away for two months! What will you tell people? My cat! Who will take care of Crookshanks? And Harry and Ron? What will you tell them?”

“You can choose whomever you wish to take over your duties while you’re away. I’ll tell them I sent you on a desperately needed holiday. I will feed Crookshanks. I’ll tell Ron and Harry that you’re on a special assignment for me and you’re not to be disturbed.” He raised his eyebrows. “Does that cover it?”

“I loathe you.”

He smirked somewhat. “No, you don’t; you just don’t like the terms of the contract and are frustrated you can’t find a way out of it.”

She stood, grabbed the parchment, and sloppily signed her name, flinging the document back at her employer when she was done. “Good luck finding the next person’s life you’re going to destroy.” She strode through the door, making sure to let it slam in her wake.

Brandishing his quill, Kingsley signed his name in flourishing script on the contractor line, with a heavy sigh. He then opened the private Floo in his office and called out, “ _Paon Deux_.”

The signed document allowed instantaneous access to the notorious company, and the Minister couldn’t get rid of the parchment fast enough. In return, a crisp white card flew from the hearth and landed on the carpeted floor, before the connection closed with a snap. 

_Floo will be open in ninety minutes._

A perverse side of Kingsley idly wondered what would happen if she showed up late, but he decided not to test the theory. He did, however, conveniently forget to warn her of the possible change in behaviour, seeing no need to give her further cause for worry.

***

Kingsley, Hermione, and Luna Lovegood gathered in his office an hour and twenty minutes later.

“I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me, Luna.” Hermione glared daggers at Shacklebolt. “The assignment was unexpected and _unavoidable_.”

“No worries, Hermione. Father doesn’t start his newest expedition until this coming spring, so I have lots of free time,” Luna replied with a smile. “And the Minister said I could name my own salary. I’ve decided to name it Fred, in honour of Ron’s brother.”

Hermione’s knuckles grew white because of how hard she was clutching her travel case. “Now, remember: read the fine print on everything, because the Minister here will forget time and again.”

“I promise.” Luna noticed her friend’s nervousness. “You know, you shouldn’t worry so,” she offered. “You’ll blossom like a rose and surprise them.”

The brunette’s gaze darted to Luna’s. “I-I… hope so,” she murmured, disconcerted by her friend’s highly tuned perception.

Kingsley moved to embrace Hermione, but she backed away with a scowl. Masking his hurt as best he could, he handed her the white card and moved next to Luna. 

“Good luck.”

Inhaling deeply, Hermione muttered, “I’ll need more than luck.”

Grabbing a handful of Floo powder, Hermione stepped within the grate and spoke. “ _Paon Deux_.”

***

She didn’t know what was worse, travelling via Floo or Portkey.

With Portkey, she always experienced that sucking sensation that led to an interminable time in the toilet. Flooing was less harsh on her digestive system, but left much to be desired in the cleanliness department. 

Such was the case when she rolled out of the ornate hearth and onto her back, a plush carpet padding her fall. She slowly opened her eyes, which had been closed tightly, only to close them quickly once more to erase the view she beheld.

“Laziness will not be tolerated, Miss Granger,” said a cool voice above her. “I do suggest you get up and remove your untidy self from my Persian rug.”

Reluctantly, she reopened her eyes to stare into twin pools of icy grey, and knew she had officially entered Hell.

Lucius and Draco Malfoy returned her stare.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’ve entered the ninth level of Hell,” Hermione said with a groan.

“Melodramatic, as usual.” Lucius sighed with disdain, removing himself from her line of vision. “I meant what I said, girl. Get up from my carpet or you’ll clean it yourself… the Muggle way.”

She shifted her gaze to Draco, who crossed his arms and smirked, not bothering to help her to her feet. She wanted to wipe that infuriating, smug look off his face so bad that it gave her the determination to stand clumsily, knocking into a side table that held a tea service in the process.

“That silver has been passed down generations, Miss Granger,” Lucius hissed as his eyes rounded on her. “If you damage it in any way, they won’t find enough of you to piece back together.”

Ignoring his threat, she dusted herself of the remaining Floo powder and soot right onto his expensive rug, a wide smile on her face. “So sorry to inconvenience you, Mister Malfoy. If you would just direct me to the nearest exit, I’ll not trouble you further.”

“Funny, Granger,” said Draco with a laugh. “You’re here for the duration of your contract unless you want to ante up the Galleons.”

She stared hard at him. “You know I don’t have that kind of money, and neither does Shacklebolt.” 

“Your money troubles are not our concern,” Lucius drawled as he sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his quill scratching on some parchment. “You should be fully aware of the terms since you penned your...” He looked at the barely legible signature. “... Your name, if that’s what this is, to the binding agreement.”

“It makes sense now, the Dark magic bound to the contract. I should’ve realized it sooner.” Hermione snorted mirthlessly, shaking her head. “What I want to know is how, since _Paon Deux_ has been in operation for hundreds of years, you two are the owners.” She turned her gaze towards Lucius. “And what you’re doing here instead of serving your parole in England.”

Draco sneered as he took a seat across from the other blond. “I told you, Father, she’ll irritate us beyond measure before we can make something of her.” He looked Hermione up and down. “Second-rate robes, still unmanageable hair.” He curled his lip in disgust when she crossed her arms and stuck out her chin out at a mutinous angle. “Common behaviour.”

“Take a seat, Miss Granger.” Lucius indicated the chair next to Draco. “We have a few issues to go over before we begin.”

Refusing to budge, she gritted her teeth. “Not until you answer my questions.”

“Draco, if you please.”

The younger Malfoy stood, made his way over to Hermione, and took her by the elbow, tugging harder when she ground in her heels. What he hadn’t accounted for was the shivering sensation that crawled up his spine the moment his fingers touched her skin. He shuddered and physically plopped her in the leather chair before she could kick him in the shin.

Rolling his eyes, Lucius rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re a lady, Miss Granger, not a Centaur bent on stubbornness; do try to act like one.”

“That’s rich, coming from the likes of you!” She glanced at Draco, frowning at the calculating look he was giving her. “Put your dog on a leash, Malfoy, before I do.”

“You will find that I do not respond to threats.” Lucius arched a brow. “I make them.”

He registered her subtle hand movement to grip her wand and blocked the hex before she finished the spell. “ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

Her wand promptly flew to the right and Draco caught it with ease, handing it to his father. Lucius studied it and then tucked into his robe pocket, paying no heed to her outrage.

“You can’t do that! Give it back!”

“I can, and you’ll receive it at the conclusion of our term together.”

She knew he had her there, as it was written into the contract that the student was to use no magic during instruction, but she hadn’t thought that would apply to the duration of her time there. Adapting to an environment where she could use no magic even for the simplest things, while it was in constant use around her, was going to be challenging.

“Ah, you did read the whole thing.” Draco sniggered at the sight of her face falling. 

“Shut up,” she said, seething as she sat back in her chair and pouted like a child denied its way.

“Now for your questions,” Lucius began, sitting back as well. “ _Paon Deux_ has been a family owned company since its inception. My great-grandfather taught my grandfather, who in turn showed father, and so on. It has always been run by two Malfoys, hence the word _deux_.”

“ _Paon_ ,” Hermione murmured absently, working an equation in her head. “Peacock...” She darted her eyes to the older man and laughed in spite of herself. “Two peacocks.”

Tilting his head, Lucius let the hint of a genuine smile play about his mouth. “Correct.” Steepling his fingers, he continued. “I served my two-year term in Azkaban and am now serving my five-year parole here at the château since Malfoy Manor is currently _unavailable_. During my incarceration, Draco managed the company with Narcissa.”

Frowning, she asked, “Why is the Manor unavailable?” She hadn’t heard anything from Harry as to why the Malfoys were not in residence. 

“I would’ve thought that obvious,” Draco interjected. “Our assets in Britain are frozen until his parole term is up. _Paon Deux_ is a French-based company, therefore not under Shacklebolt’s jurisdiction. While there are restrictions as to what Lucius may do or where he may go, they aren’t as restrictive here versus if he were to remain in England.”

“Does Jules Laurent know you two are here?” 

“Of course he does,” Lucius said with a laugh. “He invited us to stay until my parole is finished. His Aurors monitor my day-to-day activities from a discreet distance. Normally, we would Floo here for lessons and return to the Manor in Wiltshire during the reprieve, as we find we’ve grown accustomed to the comforts of home.”

Examining the opulence of the receiving parlour, she suspected the rest of the estate was just as palatial. “So how do you afford this on five hundred thousand Galleons per student?”

“That’s just the price for a two-month term, Granger. It’s three million for a year,” Draco corrected.

“I see.” She gulped audibly. 

“Your contract is unique, suffice it to say,” Lucius pointed out. “Miss Granger, do not cross your legs like that,” he admonished. “Cross them demurely at the ankle and sit up straight.”

Her lips thinned in anger. “I will do as—”

“No, you will not!” he thundered, slamming his hand down on the desk. “You will do as we instruct and when we tell you to do it!” Back on his feet, he leaned forward and glared at her. “Make no mistake; we did not produce the last five winners of _La Grande Danse_ because we allowed them to idly sit on their ample backsides.”

“If I only had the money to pay you,” she threatened.

Draco sniggered. “But you don’t. And I, for one, would forgo the money just for the opportunity to tell you what to do.”

“Arrgh! I hate you both!” she shouted as she reached her limit, wishing that she had mastered nonverbal spells so she could hex their bollocks off.

Moving from behind his desk to stand before her, Lucius stared down imperiously. “Good. You’ll be able to channel your hatred into something more useful than childish whining.” He then turned on his heel and left the room.

“And he was in such a great mood this morning,” Draco lamented. “Personally, I think you’re getting the better part of this deal.”

Rubbing her temples, she sighed. “How do you figure that?”

He moved in front of her, resting his frame against his father’s desk. “You’re getting a year’s worth of instruction in a two-month time period, the fee is reduced significantly, and you’ll be the most sought-after Muggle-born witch once we’re finished.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t call me a Mudblood,” she muttered.

“What would be the point? You know what you are.”

She raised her chin in defiance. “Yes, I do know what I am. I’m a witch that can kick your arse all over—”

“You lack finesse, Granger,” he told her pointedly. “You may beat me in some things, but you’ll never best me when it comes to grace and poise. You’re as ungainly as a troll.”

“You loathsome ferret!”

“What’s the matter? Hit too close to the truth, did I?” He smirked and crouched down until his nose was practically touching hers. “You have passion; I’ll give you that.” He moved closer, inhaling deeply. “You just need an outlet.” With that, he removed himself and strode for the door. “Lunch is in an hour. I’ll show you to your room.”

Grabbing her satchel, she followed him through the manse, up a grand staircase, and down a hallway that was lined with intricately carved wooden doors. He stopped in front of one at the far end near a set of diamond-pane windows and opened it, motioning her to precede him. 

Inside, Hermione lost all ability to speak as she surveyed the immense bedroom. In the middle was an oversized, four-poster bed, complete with a diaphanous canopy. A deep rich purple duvet trimmed in lavender covered the bed and the carpet was charcoal grey. She shrugged off her robes and peeked inside the bathroom, which was decorated in sage-green and sandy-brown colours, noting the tub large enough to fit five people with spa jets embedded in the sides.

“Does it meet with your approval?” Draco whispered near her ear. He smiled when she started.

She closed her eyes and tried not to react to the timbre of his voice. “It’s fine. Not like I’ll be using it to a great extent, since I have so much to learn in such a short amount of time, as you said.”

Frowning, he tried to ignore the tingling sensation he got in the pit of his stomach the moment he spied her rapid pulse. He nuzzled her hairline and smiled against her skin. “I’m sure you’ll find ways to utilize the bath.”

Quickly, she stepped away from him, rubbing her neck. “Stop that,” she ordered, scowling at him.

“Stop what?” he asked innocently, following her to where she stood. It was almost like he _couldn’t_ stop himself.

“We both know you don’t even remotely like me and you _definitely_ don’t like me in _that_ sense, so if you would—”

“Is that so?” He clasped his hands behind his back and invaded her personal space once more. “You think you know what I like?”

She retreated until the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed, but was still unable to rid herself of his presence. “I’m here to learn how to dance, not get involved.”

Trapping her legs between his thighs, he leaned forward until she was practically prone on the mattress. “You’ll soon learn, Granger, that dancing is the perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire.” 

She watched him undress her with his gaze, the heat in his eyes shaking her to the core. Slowly, he lowered his mouth to her sternum and pressed his lips to her chest, his tongue darting out to taste her flesh.

“Mmmh,” he hummed. “Dirty.”

She immediately became rigid and moved to shove him off, only to be pinned by his strong hands securing her wrists above her head. Trying another tactic, she bucked her hips, only to feel the unmistakable hardness of his erection, causing her eyes to widen.

“See?” he purred against her cheek. “You only _think_ you know me.”

It was like his blood was boiling; he was so aroused... and confused. He’d never fancied this annoying swot in school. Why should he start now? She looked the same as the last time he had seen her three years ago, just after the final battle, except she had grown taller and filled out a smidge on her hips and chest. So why was he having this reaction to her? He had definitely seen better curves on many of the women—and some of the men—they’d trained here, and her personality was as welcoming as that of a werewolf _sans_ Wolfsbane potion. There had to be another explanation for it.

He studied her until a sudden coldness entered his stormy eyes and he removed his body from hers. Heading to the door, he said, “Get cleaned up and dressed. The house-elf, Francois, will show you to the dining room when you’re ready.” 

The slamming of the door startled her, even though she knew it was coming with the way he left in a huff. What she hadn’t seen coming and didn’t understand, however, was the bereft feeling she had as he exited the room.

***

“Well?” Lucius drawled, looking up from his files as Draco entered the library.

Giving his father a brilliant smile, Draco came and stood next to him. He leant against the bookcase and said, “Virgin, definitely,” with a quiet laugh. “She nearly wet herself when I tasted her skin.” He palmed his erection and shifted it to the side, hoping to ease some of the ache. “She does have a certain innate ability with her hips that gets me going, but her gawky legs muck it up.”

“Hips, you say?” Lucius eyed his son’s _problem_. “Take care of that before we eat. I don’t want you drooling all over the chit at the table.” 

“I will,” Draco promised. “She does smell exquisite, though.”

Perusing a chart with various dance moves, his father answered absentmindedly, “Hmm, does she?”

“Yes… musky, like night-blooming jasmine, and clean like lavender.”

Lucius turned slowly to face his son. “Night-blooming jasmine?” A slight twitch of his facial muscle betrayed his concern. “Have any of the other women smelled this way to you?”

The younger Malfoy quirked his eyebrows in response. “Come to think of it, no. In fact, a distinct lack of natural scent has always been present until now.”

Brow furrowed, Lucius stared at him for such a long time that Draco become uncomfortable. “Have you...” Lucius looked down, as if studying something, then returned his gaze to the fidgeting young man. “Have you never grown attached to any woman before?”

Draco rubbed the back of his neck. “Not really. They were all just shags to me and some of them not very good.”

Letting out a long sigh, Lucius closed his eyes slowly, then opened them and looked at his son with something akin to pity. “You’ll be twenty-one in June.”

“Yes,” Draco said slowly. “And?”

“I was twenty-one when it happened to me,” Lucius whispered to himself.

“What?”

“When I married your mother,” Lucius said quietly and his gaze darted to the moving photograph he had sitting on a shelf, off to this right.

Narcissa Malfoy had been killed just before Lucius had been released from Azkaban, the victim of a Death Eater attack in retaliation for her husband’s turnabout in loyalties. Her body had been so badly mutilated, Draco had had a hard time identifying it. Harry Potter had handled the capture of the Death Eaters responsible and Draco was honestly grateful for it, ensuring that he and Harry were at least cordial to each other in public. 

But when Lucius had been told of his wife’s demise by Draco on the day they released his father from prison, the older Malfoy had taken the news very badly. Collapsing in the cell, Lucius had been reduced to sobs, and for once, the guards had left him to his private misery. After relocating to France, Draco had struggled to convince his father to continue living, eventually packing away his mother’s things, save for a few animated photographs, in hopes of preventing a relapse. 

His fears for Lucius had escalated lately, though, due to his father’s increasing reclusive behaviour and long hours of doing nothing but staring at his wife’s photograph. He hoped Granger’s presence would help. The girl would pull Lucius out of his shell with her wilful attitude and force him to respond whereas Draco had failed to get even a tersely-worded retort. If she could accomplish that, Draco would give her whatever she wanted, including his respect.

But there was something uneasy in Lucius now, as if something monumental was about to occur and he had no way of stopping it. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

Lucius’ eyes became shuttered, and he looked everywhere except at his son. “You did say hips, yes?” Consulting the chart before him, he picked ‘hips’ and got rid of ‘legs’. “Is her hair manageable?”

Fine. If his father wanted to be evasive, then Draco would let it slide. For now. “If I find enough Sleekeazy.” He pondered for a moment. “Otherwise, one or two tightly coiled braids, maybe a French twist.”

The older blond chose ‘hair,’ and because he’d studied it himself, he picked ‘bum.’ “Her wide shoulders are a nice asset,” he commented, sliding ‘shoulders’ over with the others. 

“Her breasts are perfect for the kind of dress I’m thinking of. Not so large that they’d bounce Merlin knows where and not so small that they’d look like a mere mound of material attached to her chest.”

The conversation might have seemed odd to the casual outsider, but Draco and his father had had many like it over the years, with regards to the students they instructed. Unlike other discussions, however, the subject of Hermione’s ample bosom set the younger wizard’s teeth on edge. “Her tits are very firm,” he confirmed with a near snarl. “Even through her blouse, they practically begged to be touched.”

Lucius snapped his attention to his son, eyes narrowed. “What has you upset?” 

“I-I don’t know,” Draco said, embarrassed. “I was just thinking about what colour her nipples are and...” Doubling over, Draco groaned and pressed his palm into his insistent erection. “Fuck!”

Lucius came around the desk, took Draco by the shoulders, and guided him to a leather divan, so he could sit him gently on the cushion. “Drink this.” He handed his son a vial full of violet-tinged liquid, which Draco promptly drained. Soon after, his rigid posture eased enough that he could sit up.

“What’s wrong with me?” Draco asked as he ran shaky hands through his pale strands.

“I’m not sure. At least, not yet.” Lucius glanced at his son’s crotch. The bulge had not abated. “Go on, I have enough information to start off with.”

Nodding, Draco rose and quickly left the room. “I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”

Scrutinizing the behaviour of his only child, Lucius grimaced. It was much the same thing that had happened to him at that age, except his had been to a far stronger degree. He glanced at Narcissa’s picture. “Did it have to be the Muggle-born, Cissy?” The woman in the portrait smirked and winked at him. “Bah! Utter romantic you always were, dearest.” 

He stood and deposited the glass vial within the wooden box where he had stored it. There were twelve such vials, each containing the same liquid in varying strengths, as indicated by the progressively darker colour, the twelfth one almost black. Such a potion had not been created by the time he’d gone through what he suspected Draco was just now beginning to experience, and he was grateful to Severus for providing it for him a few months ago. Lucius studied the note attached in Snape’s spiky scrawl.

_For calming of latent urges. Start first vial at onset of symptoms. If all twelve are used within four weeks, either change is imminent or mate has been found. Floo me if problems arise._

“Gods damn it!” he muttered heatedly and snapped the lid closed. His son, who had endured the folly of his sire, was not supposed to suffer the same fate. Draco had shown no obvious signs of his heritage, other than the unnatural beauty all Malfoys possessed, and in all the years of women and men traipsing about, not one had inspired the depth of possession he knew lurked in his son’s being, dormant as it might be.

But if Hermione Granger was the deciding factor for his son’s eventual transformation, then Lucius imagined her mind provided fertile ground to be explored and her innocent body the playground of hidden delights for Draco.

***

After a light lunch, Hermione was directed to a grand ballroom, complete with chandelier, parquet wooden floor, floor-to-ceiling length windows at one end, and a mirrored wall with a waist-high metal bar at the other. 

“Wow,” she breathed, taking in the grandeur of the place. “I can imagine the parties in here.”

“This is just the practice room, Granger,” Draco corrected. “We entertain in a different wing altogether.” He looked somewhat peaked. 

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. 

Lucius strode to where they stood. “I want her dressed for the Rumba, Draco.”

“Come on, then.”

Leading her to a room off to the left, Draco instructed she was to strip to her knickers with no bra and handed her a slip of black material to don. She smiled hesitantly at him, but received no warmth in return, as if the scene in her bedroom had never occurred. Apparently, he was all business now, as was his father, so she closed the door and shut down her emotions as best she could. After removing her clothes, she pulled the outfit over her head.

She stared in the mirror once the dress was in place. The neckline was a halter-top, fitted to her bodice until it reached her hips, then it draped into a flared skirt, a slit in the material running from the hem to the top of her thigh. If she didn’t swish the skirt, the dress was perfectly decent; otherwise, she could end up flashing someone with her arse. 

“Here,” Draco called as he opened the changing room door a little and shoved a box at her. 

Thank Merlin! She was about to ask him if there were some missing parts to the outfit before he gave her the container, and she opened it in hopes of finding them, only to have those hopes dashed when she beheld a pair of shoes with a medium-sized heel. Sighing, she slipped them on and tightened the buckle.

Finally done, she opened the door and stepped out, cringing in mortification, trying to cover her shoulders and chest with her hands. “I can’t honestly believe people dance in this.”

Since his back was turned to the room she had changed in, Draco turned and let his jaw drop at the curves Hermione presented, outlined by the black dress as they were. The capizeo shoes provided the right amount of height and stability needed for the dance, but they also had the added benefit of shaping her legs, making them more slender.

“Do close your mouth, Draco,” Lucius reproached, coming to stand beside him. “Miss Granger,” he purred, holding out his hand for hers.

Collecting himself, Draco followed them to the middle of the room and waited for direction from his father as to which position Lucius wished to start with. “Lead or follow?”

“For now, I’ll follow. I want to study her movements and see what needs work.” He pried Hermione’s other hand from where she still grasped her shoulder and looked deeply into her eyes. “Relax, Miss Granger; it’s just a dance.”

“I’m not used to showing this much… erm, skin,” she explained nervously. 

Cautiously, Lucius traced her collarbone with his index finger. “And it’s very beautiful skin, I must say.” 

This had an immediate effect on Draco. He growled and forcefully removed Lucius’ hand from Hermione’s neck. “Mine,” he hissed low at his father. 

Hermione didn’t hear what he said, but the cadence of his voice made her heart beat in triple time. “Th-thank you,” she stuttered to Lucius, flustered beyond belief. What Draco did next, though, would have made her pass out if she were the fainting kind.

His own thumb caressed the dip at the bottom of her throat as his fingers made their way around her neck, gently rubbing the nape in an effort to soothe her. “What helps you relax, Hermione?” he murmured, his gaze locked to hers.

“Books,” she mumbled, slowly being lulled by his soft touch. 

“Just books?” he breathed near her ear as he’d done earlier in the day. He moved behind her, his body flush with hers, his hands on either side of her hips. 

Closing her eyes in sensory overload, she was about to let her head drop back onto Draco’s shoulder, but Lucius cleared his throat and brought her back to her senses. Abruptly, she stiffened and moved away from both men. 

“Stop it!” She darted her gaze between the two. 

They looked at each other in surprise. “It seems we must do this the hard way.” Lucius sighed in irritation. “Draco, if you please.”

He approached Hermione and, giving her no choice, turned her so that she was directly facing him. “I’ll need to put my hands on your hips, Granger, so get used to it.”

“Fine,” she hissed. “Just don’t go any lower.”

“I will if I need to. Now, do shut up and follow my lead.”

Lucius stood to the side and studied the couple as Draco took her hands, placing one in the air, slightly angled, and keeping the other in his grip. “Ready?”

Panic filled her eyes. “Ready for what? What do I do?”

Draco’s hold intensified. “First rule of dance: trust your partner. I’ve been doing this most of my life. I won’t let you falter.”

“I-I…”

“On the count of four, you will move back as if retreating from an enemy.” 

“But—”

“Music begin,” Lucius instructed the room.

“What kind—”

Heavy strings began in a thrusting rhythm while a pounding backbeat compelled the listener to move, the music sensual and highly emotive.

“One… two… three… _move_!”

Draco pushed Hermione, forcing her to step back and following her relentlessly. Unfortunately, instead of taking the usual long strides backwards required for the Rumba, she took a hesitant staccato gait, as if tiptoeing, and inadvertently landed on Draco’s instep with her chunky heel.

Lucius couldn’t help but smirk at his son’s grimace of pain, but was quite proud that the boy only grunted without yelping. “You will now turn away from Draco,” he told Hermione.

Taking her hand, Draco rotated her body until she was facing the mirrors, gasping at the picture they presented when he placed one hand on the back of her left thigh, the other on her right hip. “Raise your leg as if you’re going to do a split, then when you lower it, slide it forward.”

Hermione felt as if she was going to pull a muscle when she lifted her left leg; the tendons vehemently protested about their abuse with burning lactic acid. Bringing it lower, she intended to slide her foot away from Draco, but a severe cramp contorted her thigh, causing her to lose her balance, kneeing the younger Malfoy in the bollocks as a result.

“Bloody hell!” Draco shouted, hunching over and cupping himself.

“I’m so sorry!” Her face was flushed with mortification.

Wincing at the predicament his son was in, Lucius pulled Hermione to stand in front of him, her back against his chest. “We must continue,” he muttered harshly in her ear. “Remember to always go on. Even if you make a mistake, act as if nothing happened.”

“You can’t be serious,” she said, baffled. “He’s hurt, we should—”

“I’m quite serious, Miss Granger,” he grated. “Unless you’d like to hold a bag of ice on his balls, I suggest you move backwards with me.” 

Her eyes had grown wide when he’d insinuated himself behind her, but she began to shake when he placed his hand on her stomach, splaying his wide palm over her abdomen. Her thoughts went right out the window when he whispered in her ear about how she could alleviate his son’s dilemma, only to finally fizzle out when he rubbed his thigh against her center. Mindlessly, she complied, all the while staring at the incapacitated wizard lying on the floor.

“Swivel your hips,” the older Malfoy ordered her next.

She attempted to do that, but it looked more like stepping over large animal droppings on a dirt road, even with Lucius holding and guiding her. The more she tried to compensate, the worse she looked, and eventually tears seeped to the corners of her eyes. 

“Lean back and put your arms around my neck like a lover,” Lucius purred.

The tears that had been hanging on her lashes finally fell, coursing silently down her cheeks while she followed his orders. Her eyes closed tightly when she felt him run his fingertips down the inside of her arms, past the outside of her breasts that were thrust outwards from the position, and finally resting just below them. 

At that moment, the music came to a close, and Lucius became stiff within their mutual embrace. He’d offered no further instruction, so she waited there, taking deep gulps of air to keep from outright panicking. When he nuzzled the underside of her hairline and inhaled deeply, she too became stiff and began to shift away from him, whether he liked it or not.

“Did I say you could move, Miss Granger?”

Shaking off his grasp, she turned and stared hard at him. “No. I did.” She crossed her arms, trying to cover her barely concealed chest. “The music is over and your son needs assistance.”

Lucius’ eye twitched at her show of bravado as he watched her walk awkwardly over to where Draco lay, and bend low to move the fringe of hair away from his eyes. He studied her closely when she cupped his son’s jaw and caressed his cheek, wondering what was motivating her kindness to a man who had tormented her most of her life.

“There’s no room for pity in this competition,” Lucius intoned loudly.

Both Draco and Hermione turned their heads and waited for him to continue, Draco’s gaze murderous in its intensity.

Looking down his nose at them, the older Malfoy strode over and grabbed Draco by the upper arm until he was in a standing position. “You’re wasting time.” He gave his son a glare that had him straightening himself, though with several grumbles of pain. 

Lucius turned to eye Hermione and advanced on her, ticking off her weaknesses with a malicious glee. “You’re clumsy, uncouth, plain, and about as graceful as a blind horse!” He snorted and made his way towards the exit, but stopped at the door, adding, “I take that back! A blind horse is more graceful than you will ever be.”

The massive oak door slammed, the sound echoing in the room.

Swiping away the tears lingering in her eyes, Hermione looked at Draco, studying his detached expression. “Is he always like this?”

He frowned. “Just lately.” Shifting to the right, he halted and grimaced in pain. “Do you have metal in your kneecaps, Granger?”

She tried not to giggle, but a small chuckle escaped before she could prevent it. “Yes, it’s the latest thing in Muggle technology.” Pulling up her skirt, she showed him her knees. “See? They’re quite knobby, too.”

Draco looked at her legs with great intensity and he wondered how he could’ve dismissed them before. They were muscular but feminine, and the calves were curved just right leading to dainty ankles. At once, he was overcome with the need to press kisses to the delicate skin behind her knees and taste how wonderfully she smelled to him. Something wasn’t right. He’d nearly crushed his father’s wrist earlier, and had he been able to remain upright, he would’ve castrated the older wizard for the way he’d handled Hermione. Never once had the inclination to slaughter the ex-Death Eater entered into the picture before, why should it start now? With Granger? He figured he’d stared long enough when he heard her clear her throat.

“Erm, what do I do now?” she asked, dropping the hem of her dress.

Rolling his shoulders, Draco took a deep breath, and tried walking. “Bugger,” he muttered after a few steps. “Follow me,” he commanded through pursed lips, moving slowly towards the exit.

“Do I have to walk like you?” she inquired lightly, hiding her smirk.

He whirled on her until they were nose to nose. “I’m taking you to the exercise room,” he snarled. “When I’m done with you, you’ll definitely be walking like this!”

A guilty look stole across her face. “I know I hurt you,” she offered weakly. “And I’m honestly sorry.” She shrugged. “I was just trying to make light of the situation.”

Frowning, he pulled away. “Why?”

“To take your mind off the pain, to diffuse the tension,” she explained. 

Tilting his head, Draco observed her closely. “You didn’t bat an eyelash at my father’s words. Why not?”

It was her turn to look at him in confusion. “Why argue with a true statement?” She smiled brightly—too brightly for his tastes. “I am all those things and probably more.”

“You’re not plain,” he stated and turned away, heading once more for the door, never checking to see if she followed.

***

“Where is the disaster on two legs?” 

Sitting gingerly in a leather chair, Draco blew out a pent-up breath. “I have her doing squat-thrusts in the exercise room to build the muscles in her thighs.”

Lucius snorted. “I doubt it will help.” He dipped his quill in the inkpot and scratched away on some parchment. He briefly glanced at the pained expression on his son’s face. “I’m sorry for that, but it is imperative that she learn to control her reactions to mistakes.”

Draco shifted to the left. “I know.” He waited until Lucius stopped writing, regarding him seriously. “We need to talk.” When his father averted his eyes, Draco intoned, “Now.”

A tense, heavy silence reigned for several moments, before Lucius leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “What do you wish to discuss?”

“Why, after all these years of training students, do I have the urge to have your guts for garters every time you go near Granger?”

Eyes narrowed, Lucius sneered. “Don’t even contemplate it.”

“Then tell me what is wrong with me!” Draco barked harshly. 

Weariness crept across Lucius’ face. “I had hoped that you would not inherit certain... traits,” he muttered. He darted his gaze to Narcissa’s picture, smiling weakly. “By all accounts, it looked as if you had not; you had never shown any signs that you had manifested—”

“Quit being evasive!” Draco shouted, face mottled red with anger. 

Lips thinned in annoyance, Lucius asked, “Tell me what you feel whenever Miss Granger is in the same room with you.”

Unnerved, Draco rubbed his chest. “Like I don’t have control over my actions. That I want to crawl under her skin, never to be removed.” He mopped his face with his hand. “I want to... mark her in some way.”

Nodding slightly, Lucius studied his son, who seemed to be on the verge of throttling someone. “What do you know of Veelas?”

Draco was so taken aback that he just stared at his father for quite some time before replying. “We learned about them in Care of Magical Creatures, and I believe the eldest Weasley married that Veela from the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Quarter Veela,” Lucius corrected. He arched his brow at Draco’s impatient look. “There is a distinction, trust me. Had she been a full Veela, she would’ve been unable to traipse about in the general public as her allure would’ve been too strong.”

“What does this have to do with why I want to shag Granger within an inch of her life?”

Lucius pursed his lips until they were nearly bloodless. “Unfortunately, it seems that your path resembles that of the former Miss Delacour, though I had hoped it would not. Your grandmother Hestia was a full Veela.”

Letting his father’s words sink in, Draco could only stare unseeingly at the portrait of his grandmother that hung over the hearth. So, he was a Veela then, was he? Vision still glazed over, he inquired, “Why didn’t you tell me you were a Veela?”

Now Lucius looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Some family secrets should remain just that: secret.” He stood and came around to lean on his desk in front of Draco. “I was the first male Veela born in two hundred years and that information was closely guarded by the Malfoy line.”

“All that pure-blood indoctrination—”

“Not even Riddle was a pure-blood,” Lucius grated out. “As I told you, my family’s secret could never be revealed if we wanted to remain in favour.”

“But the allure, how did you hide it?”

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly looking very tired. “With carefully placed and extremely strong dampening charms. It is perhaps fortuitous that we are attractive to begin with, so there were not many occasions that required close scrutiny as to why most of the females, and some of the males, would flock to us.”

Swallowing audibly, Draco nodded. “And what of Mother? Did she know what you were?”

A wicked smile spread across Lucius’ face. “Not initially. But during our sixth year, in an extreme fit of pique, the charms weakened. She happened to be in the same room and was exposed to a significant portion of the allure.” He laughed quietly. “We didn’t emerge from my room for over a day.”

“Father!” Draco groused with a moue of disgust. “Spare me the details.”

“I thought I did.” He waved off his son’s embarrassment. “I sent word to my family that I had found my mate and urged them to broker a contract with the Black family for Narcissa. They did so very quietly, filling the Black coffers for her dowry.”

“Did they know?” 

Lucius shook his head. “Had they known, I do believe they would’ve denied the union, even though I had already marked her.”

“Mother was marked?” Draco held up his hand to halt his father’s explanation. “Never mind; I don’t want to know where.”

“Coward,” Lucius mumbled good-naturedly. “But to answer your question, yes she was. It will soon be this way for Miss Granger, I expect.”

Several emotions flitted in Draco’s eyes. “Do I have this Veela allure?”

Lucius tilted his head to study his son. “You are naturally handsome, but I do not sense that you’ve reached the point where it would expected be present. That is why I assumed the trait had by-passed you altogether. It began manifesting within me when I was sixteen.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “So early?”

Lucius shrugged, having dealt with it most of his life. “I fancied myself popular because of the Malfoy name or the position my father held, when in reality, it was the allure people were drawn to. The traits are stronger in me. Should you have offspring, the characteristics may be completely absent.” He glanced at Draco’s lap. “How are you feeling now?”

Shifting in his seat, Draco grimaced a bit. “I’ll live.”

“Good.” Lucius straightened and returned to his seat. “Due to certain circumstances, I think it best that you relieve Miss Granger of her little problem before the week is up.”

Draco gaped at his father. “Her _little problem_?” 

The older wizard arched a dark brow. “Her virginity,” he drawled slowly. “Rid her of it.”

“You make it sound as if it were just as easy as reading a book,” Draco pointed out. “This is Granger we’re talking about.”

“You had no such reservations when you tupped Miss Sacerdote,” Lucius reminded him.

“She was a Minister’s daughter. They love to be corrupted and she was just begging to be let loose.” 

Knowing his son’s penchant for bedding the female students, Lucius asked, “What about Miss Geistliche? You didn’t even wait three days before you were between her thighs.”

Draco held up his hand to halt his father’s path of reasoning. “First, that _woman_ was built like Hagrid. Secondly, she threatened to crush me if I refused her advances.” He closed his eyes to ward off the images of that encounter, shuddering with revulsion. “She even dislocated my right hip when we became a bit too ardent in our play.”

“Good lord!” Lucius spluttered. “I take it your other conquests were not so distasteful?”

The younger blond’s lips curled into a mischievous leer. “Let’s just say the wonderfully endowed Miss Cantare screamed loud enough to bring down an opera house.”

Lucius’ smirk rivalled his son’s. “Ah, that is one reason she won the _La Grande Danse_ four years ago.” Almost instantly, though, his mouth thinned with impatience. “Regardless, Miss Granger needs to relax, and we’re working with a time constraint. Dancing is wonderful training for girls, and the first way one learns to guess what a man is going to do before he does it, but time is not a luxury in this instance. You should find it no hardship, especially if she is to be your mate.”

Draco stood and began to pace. “But I don’t want a mate!”

Hiding a knowing grin with a conspicuous drape of his beautiful locks, Lucius only said, “As you wish. If you will not, then I suppose I will have to.”

The pacing immediately stopped, and Draco snarled, “Don’t touch her! She’s mine!”

Lucius shrugged nonchalantly. “You said you didn’t want a mate.”

“She’s too well known in the Wizarding world. Anything I do to her will eventually get back to Shacklebolt or Potter.”

“I thought she and Shacklebolt signed the contract? Didn’t you assure me that implementing these new guidelines would guarantee that _Paon Deux_ could demand silence on pain of lost magic?”

“Yes,” Draco said hesitantly, not meeting his father’s icy stare.

“Well? What caveat prevents her from keeping that pert mouth of hers shut?”

“Rape.”

A muscle ticked in Lucius’ jaw. “Since when have your powers of seduction failed you? It’s not rape if it’s consensual between both parties.”

“I don’t want to be the other party!” 

Lucius rolled his eyes. “You’re starting to sound as melodramatic as her. The more I think on it, the better suited you are for each other.” Glancing over his finely-manicured nails, he sighed. “I give you a week.” Pinning Draco with a challenging look, he added, “Resist if you can.”

The door slammed in Draco’s wake.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione stepped into the steaming bathwater, gingerly lowering her aching body into its welcoming warmth. Settled, she lay back and let her head slip beneath the water until she was fully submerged.

While holding her breath, she slowly opened her eyes, the heat making her blink several times before they adjusted to the temperature. The water distorted her vision, but colours and certain shapes were discernable... unlike the whirlwind the past month had been under both Malfoy’s tutelage. Things had progressed so quickly, she rarely knew which way up. Until recently, she had failed to account for the impact of their instruction, changing her from a workaholic, dowdy bookworm into a poised and attractive butterfly. 

True to Draco’s promise, she now walked differently, sat differently. She had even caught herself gliding up the staircase, something unheard of in past years. It had been enough to stop her dead in her tracks to look sideways in the hall mirror. She stood a little straighter, and her arms seemed a little more defined. She had even lost that wee pudge on her stomach and hips due to the almost constant work-outs and dance lessons. 

The Malfoys had changed her diet as well. Every morning upon rising, Lucius would shove a vial of a nutrient and mineral-laden potion under her nose, demanding that she drink it. The first day, she’d balked and refused. The second day—her eyes barely open with the morning sun—Draco had pinched her nose and poured it down her throat. Spluttering, she had smacked his hands away and ended up on the floor at his feet. His leer and suggestion that she make herself useful while down there ended with him nearly emasculated. Nevertheless, she had wisely consumed the following potions as she felt better overall in the course of a day after doing so. 

Breakfast was always lavish, consisting of croissants, cereal, bacon, eggs and juice—all the carbohydrates and proteins needed for energy. And Circe’s carbuncles, did Hermione ever need the energy. Lunches were light, while dinner consisted of seafood or chicken, complemented with avocados and other foods that contained essential fatty acids. 

Gruelling in their schedule and routine, they had her start in the exercise room, lifting small weights for toning and treadmill for stamina. Sometimes Draco trained right along with her, and she had a hard time keeping her focus on anything other than the wizard running alongside her, especially once he began to sweat. At that point, it was a physical ache for her not to look at him, and once or twice, she had actually reached out to swipe at the damp strands of hair that had been plastered to his forehead, only to stop short and grimace. He had smirked and leaned down to nuzzle his nose with hers, disappearing shortly afterwards, leaving her off-balance. 

After stretching, she met Draco and Lucius in the practice room for intense lessons in all forms of dance. So far, Jazz and Swing were her favourites amongst the ones she had learned, as they allowed for improvisation and their movements weren’t so restrictive. She argued with herself that she didn’t like any of the Latin dances, especially the Rumba, since they required Draco to hold her close. Every time that happened, an onslaught of emotions and desires—for both parties, if she were correct—emerged and was translated into their dance. Lucius often ordered them to end sessions with the Rumba, as the inclination of both to submit to the growing attraction was high and their resistance was low. Once or twice, she thought she had glimpsed a knowing gleam in the older Malfoy’s eyes when he studied her and Draco, but then an impassive mask would fall into place and his gaze would harden, leaving her to wonder what he was plotting.

At the end of every evening, she practically crawled to her room and collapsed on the bed. She hurt in places she didn’t know she had. Her thighs burned, her calves cramped, her back protested and her feet were raw with blisters and calluses. Thinking she would rather suffer in silence than ask the two men who were twisting and bending her into some bizarre version of a circus contortionist for any hint of relief, she said nothing. Instead, she grunted whenever Draco’s hand would occasionally grip at the aching muscles in her lower back, never giving him or his father the satisfaction of asking them to ease the worst of her pain. They both would see it as weakness and no doubt malign her further. She wouldn’t give them the opportunity. 

The results, however, were startling. Where she had previously been soft and curved, she was now defined and strong. Her hair was still another matter altogether, but the Malfoys hadn’t seemed concerned with the frizzy mess. And along with her new body shape came new garments. The outfits for the dancing kept getting skimpier and more brazen, so she soon learned to don them without hesitation and even became a little daring, shocking both wizards with her quick acclimation to the whole ordeal.

Letting a couple bubbles slip from between her smiling lips, she accepted the fact that she didn’t recognise herself anymore and that it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Another matter that needed dealing with was Draco. Whenever he pulled her close to dance, she could feel his hand dip below her waist in a move that had nothing at all to do with the day’s selection. If Lucius observed the behaviour, he said nothing, for he insisted on driving them both to the point of near exhaustion. She imagined Draco had never had to work this hard before with a student, but she was secretly pleased he had to suffer through the paces just as she did. 

Lucius had tried several times to correct her positioning while she was still in Draco’s arms, but he would always end up barking the orders instead because his son would literally growl at him if he looked as if he might touch her in any way. She adamantly refused to admit that the sound made her core clench with desire. And to make things worse, any hint of bare skin was fair game for Draco’s questing fingers. They slid over her shoulders, braced her neck when he dipped her backwards, cupped her face and generally made her emotions go haywire. If that wasn’t bad enough, she found that she would indulge in the same thing if Draco’s shirt happened to be unbuttoned, all the while thinking of running her tongue along the sharp, sweaty angle of his collarbone.

“What the hell are you doing?” a voice shouted from somewhere.

Startled, Hermione sat up, the hot bathwater sluicing down her face and body. She gasped when she saw the subject of her musings standing in the entryway. Shock and anger warred with each other in his expression as he stared at her.

“Well?”

She spluttered and shoved a wet lock of her hair away from her eyes. “I’m taking a bath. What does it look like?” It was a testament to how exhausted she was that she didn’t scream or immediately grab a towel to cover herself. Belatedly, she glanced down to see that her hair mostly hid the pertinent bits it could reach, so she used her hands to cover the rest of her body.

Draco strode over to the tub and bent low, now with a hint of fear in his gaze. “It looked like you were trying to drown yourself.” 

Snorting, she shook her head. “I wouldn’t give you or Lucius the pleasure.”

Eyes narrowed, Draco leaned close. “There will be no pleasure where Lucius is concerned.” 

“What about you?” she asked flippantly.

He was a hairsbreadth away from her lips when he said, “You’ll definitely give me pleasure.” Curling his long fingers in her hair, he slanted his mouth over hers. 

Though it was clichéd in the extreme, Hermione felt her toes curl and her skin become tingly from the attention Draco was giving her. 

Wait. No, no, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen! She was there to do a job, that was it—not to get involved. 

But oh, his lips were so persistent and firm, softening exactly at the right time for his tongue to make tentative sweeps that made her gasp. When he cupped her cheeks to deepen the kiss, she heard herself moan and gave in to him, threading her fingers through his pale blond strands to keep him from retreating. 

“Mine,” he murmured against her lips, and she had a hard time remembering why that should have bothered her. 

He let his hands fall from her face and hooked them under her arms to lift her from the tub, uncaring that the water drenched his clothes. She quickly wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders to steady herself, a parody of one of the dance moves they had performed in the past week. 

He turned and placed her none-too-gently on the cold marble countertop, swallowing her squeal with another devouring kiss. “Do you know how hard it is not to touch you?” He panted heavily as he coiled a length of her tresses around his fist, pulling her head back to gaze at him. 

“You touch me all the time when we dance,” she said with a whimper.

His fingers flitted across her stomach and dipped into the damp curls that crowned her sex. “But not here.” A finger swiped her clit, and he smirked when she gasped. “You’ve never been touched here.”

Presumptuous git! “I’ll have you know that I’ve had—”

“Liar,” Draco growled and pinched the nubbin. “You respond so passionately to something that is meant only to bring you to a simmer.”

She struggled, affronted. “I’m passionate about everything!”

He slipped a finger into her dripping core. “That you are, little bird. Did you know great dancers aren't great because of their technique? They are great because of their passion.” 

Though his hand was doing marvellous things to her, she grew weary of the game he was playing with her and gave him a cruel smirk. “Oh, I’ve heard all about your _passion_. Your father never fails to mention your numerous conquests, or how lucky I am to even receive your attentions.”

Draco’s expression turned black and he pulled away, leaving her shaking and trying to cover her body from his scrutiny. He opened his mouth to say something, apparently thought better of it, then left the room quietly.

Hermione covered her mouth and squeezed her eyes tight. After several minutes of composing herself, she slowly edged off the counter, mindful that her muscles would still be achy. When her foot found the floor, however, nothing protested. In fact, her whole body felt refreshed, as if she could run the length of Hogwarts and back without breaking a sweat. She turned and looked in the mirror, her jaw dropping a bit. Her normally unmanageable hair now had lustre to it, though it was still full of riotous curls that refused to behave. 

She brought her fingers to her lips and ghosted them over the slightly abused flesh, wondering with ill-concealed jealousy if all of Draco’s _partners_ reacted like this or if she was special in any way.

***

“Draco?” Lucius called to the figure huddled in the corner of his study.

The younger wizard’s response was unintelligible, something between a sob and growl. Moving slowly so as not to startle the trembling wizard, Lucius opened the wooden box and withdrew another vial, the fifth in the series of twelve. “Come here, Son,” he beckoned softly.

“No!” Draco’s voice sounded nearly feral.

Vial in hand, Lucius strode to where Draco crouched, and bent low to look at him. Gripping the young man’s chin, he studied the changes that were becoming obvious. An intense dark blue was edging the irises of Draco’s usually clear grey eyes. He also felt the fever on Draco’s skin, though there was no hint of a flush. Taking one of his son’s hands, Lucius discovered that the fingers were curled and razor-sharp nails adorned each tip. 

It was worse than he’d thought.

Lucius pried open Draco’s resisting mouth and poured the contents of the vial down the boy’s throat, holding his son’s nose so that he would be forced to swallow. After a bit of spluttering, Draco slumped against the wall, unconscious, his eyes rolled back in his head. 

Standing, Lucius withdrew his wand and levitated the youth to one of the chaise lounges, where he deposited him gently. He returned the vial to the box, knowing only seven doses remained. He would consider sending a missive to Severus by the tenth vial if things with the Granger chit had not progressed. Having closed the lid, he returned to Draco’s side, sat next to him, and brushed a few strands from his forehead. The fever had abated, but one glance at Draco’s hands confirmed that not every symptom had been halted.

***

“I will be your instructor for the remainder of the day,” Lucius intoned as Hermione stepped into the practice room. 

She hesitated briefly. “Did something happen to Draco?” While she didn’t mind Lucius as a dance partner, she much preferred his son. Something about having to touch Malfoy senior in any manner just felt overtly wrong. 

A flicker of irritation flashed in his features. “He’s incapacitated at the moment.” He narrowed his eyes. “What have you done to your hair?”

She touched the still unmanageable locks. “I-I’m not sure. I was having a bath when Draco burst in and he—”

“Draco saw you?” he asked, shock marring his customary, stiff aristocratic countenance.

Red tinged her cheeks. “It wasn’t like I could cover myself that quickly. You have my wand, remember?”

“Yes,” he said absentmindedly, shaking his head as if to clear it before holding out his hand. “Salsa, if you please.”

Mentally, she groaned. She had not actually performed Salsa, though she had touched on several other Latin dances, and she hated when Lucius would drone on about the dance while she was trying to perform. Why couldn’t he give her something to read beforehand so that she could concentrate on the moves instead of letting the cadence of his voice trip her up?

“The most common name for Cuban Salsa dancing is Casino, as it is known throughout Latin America.”

She tried not to roll her eyes when he started moving her about the room.

“Culturally, Casino is danced as a connection between male and female, feeling the music, _Sabor_ , as its main ingredient. Much of the interaction of Casino-style dancing is based on the broader Latin cultural context, with emphasis on _sexual_ interplay, teasing and everyday experience.”

Did he have to say ‘sexual’ like it was warm honey, drizzled over her body? This man was worse than his son when it came to using his voice as a weapon!

“As you have already learned the Rumba and Mambo, mastering Casino should be relatively easy, since those two are the underlying dance influences. You are lucky, Miss Granger; not many students grasp this style of dance, since there is a significant lack of teaching materials in languages other than Spanish.”

Lucius put his foot behind him on the break, which was in contrast to the most common basic Latin dance step, where the male places his left foot forward. It made her falter somewhat, until he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close. 

“This style induces _machismo_ in men, and lures the women to be femininely sexy, with major body and muscle isolations,” he breathed, ghosting his lips over her neck. “Dancers often break from each other during percussion solos and perform the _despelote_ , an advanced form of styling in which the man and woman become physically close, teasing each other without touching through the gyrating of hips and shoulders whilst performing.”

Bloody hell! She was going to melt into a puddle on the floor if he didn’t stop speaking and touching her. But it felt wrong, like betrayal of the worst sort, and she put her hands on his chest and shoved. “Stop,” she pleaded, shaking.

A lascivious smirk stole across his mouth. “I don’t think you want me to do that,” he countered before resuming their previous positions. 

She struggled when he pressed a kiss to her jaw, almost retching on his shoes in the process.

He stilled briefly and she could feel him smirk against her skin. “We have company.”

Quickly turning her head, she found Draco at the door to the practice room. He was barely standing, his eyes red-rimmed, his teeth bared. She tried to go to him, but Lucius held her back.

“To approach him at this moment would be the height of idiocy, Miss Granger.”

“Let go of me,” she hissed, prying his hands from around her middle.

Draco’s eyes widened when he saw that she was struggling, and he stalked towards them. “Mine!” he thundered, his voice echoing in the room.

Slipping an arm around Hermione’s shoulders, Lucius arched a brow and pulled her flush to his chest. “You didn’t want her,” he taunted.

“What are you talking about?” Hermione was now truly frightened. Both Malfoys looked ready to murder each other. 

“You haven’t told her, have you?” Lucius asked incredulously.

“Told me what?”

“Give her to me now!”

Lucius dragged her further from Draco when the younger man advanced on them. “Tell her!”

Having had enough of the barbaric behaviour, Hermione landed her heel on Lucius’ foot. “Let go of me!”

He grunted through the pain and wrapped his fingers around her neck, squeezing until he had her attention. “You’ll pay for that, Miss Granger.” He then whispered in her ear, “Draco has Veela blood,” released her, and Disapparated from the room.

Shaking, she returned the stare Draco was giving her. “You’re a Veela?” she bit out harshly. “Is that why I want to touch you all the time? Why your voice is like a drug to me?”

He didn’t blink or look away. “Yes,” he snarled and took a step towards her, his hand reaching for her.

“No!” she cried upon seeing the menacing nails on his fingers. “Don’t come near me!”

A flash of hurt showed in his eyes and then nothing. “Would it make a difference if I told you those other women meant nothing to me?”

“That line was pathetic, especially for you,” she remarked with a disgusted laugh and crossed her arms. “It makes you seem even more callous, knowing what you are, that you allowed them to think they had a chance to be happy with you.” She shook her head and bit her lip, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to break through her voice, feeling as if she had been played like all the other witches he had seduced. “And to think I almost fell for it. At least now I can tell Ron I know how it felt to want something unattainable.”

“I’m not unattainable,” Draco argued, reaching for her again.

“No!” She screamed this time. “I-I can’t think when you touch me!”

“Good,” he muttered and closed the distance anyway so he could press his lips to hers before she had a chance to bolt.

Hermione would have liked to say that she put up a struggle, but her heart simply wasn’t in it, not when his mouth was searing her skin so deliciously. And gods forbid, she would have never thought to wrap her arms around him and hold on for dear life—no, not sensible Hermione Granger. Reality intruded, however, when she suddenly felt her back being clawed as if with razors when Draco held her closer.

She broke from his grasp immediately and, without a by-your-leave, fled from the room.

***

Lucius rubbed his instep before finally hissing a healing charm to remove the bruising the woman had caused with her tantrum. Afterwards, he sat in his leather wing-backed chair and stared at his wife’s picture, sighing heavily.

“Forgive me, love,” he said softly. “It was the only way to move him forward. You know how stubborn he can be.” He smirked at her snide look. “He gets it from your side of the family as you well know.” At her affronted manner, he chuckled. “Don’t deny it.”

“Deny what?”

Lucius slowly turned his head to see that Draco was standing in the doorway. “It is unimportant.” He looked his son up and down. “Done already?”

That caused a sneer to curl Draco’s lip. “Intentionally baiting me will _not_ work. If I have her, it will be on _my_ terms!” 

“Your terms are causing you to suffer needlessly, Draco.” Lucius glanced at his son’s hands, noticing the specks of dried blood on them. “Have you marked her?”

Frowning, Draco followed his father’s gaze. “No,” he replied with a hint of irritation. He tried to wipe the offending crimson on his slate-coloured trousers, but it held fast. 

Grabbing his hand, Lucius prevented Draco from rubbing either it or his leg raw. “Stop this at once! You’ll injure yourself.” He pointed to a divan and instructed him to sit. Once he had Draco’s full attention, he sat in front of him. “Why do you fight it so?”

The young wizard threaded shaky hands through his hair. “Never have I questioned the Malfoy appeal. I believed the lingering glances I received in school to be part of that attraction: the wealth, the prestige, the looks. Now, I am told it was because I am part Veela and that is the reason for everything. Not my personality, not my position, but because some bloody creature couldn’t keep her claws off my grandfather!”

“You will not speak ill of my parents,” Lucius warned. 

Darting his eyes to his grandmother’s portrait, Draco sneered. “She is no great beauty! Hermione is twice as stunning—”

Laughter filled the room as Lucius shook his head. “We are immune to our own kind, Draco. Of course you feel Hermione is far more beautiful than your grandmother. It is only natural. Our allure affects only the weak-minded or our chosen mate. Because you are my son, Miss Granger reacts to me, though I suspect she feels rather disgusted by the fact. Were a person truly not interested, we would hold no sway.”

Slightly mollified, Draco nodded. “It was why Fudge was so easy to control, wasn’t it?”

“Exceedingly easy,” Lucius drawled with a knowing smirk, but then sobered. “I must warn you against something, though.” Reaching behind him, he pulled a length of his silky hair around to lie over his shoulder. “Under no circumstances are you to allow anyone other than your family or mate to remove your hair.”

“But you’ve had my hair cut several—”

“By your mother. If it were unwillingly removed by say, a stranger or during a scuffle, you and your powers would diminish to nothing.”

Draco touched his shoulder-length hair, struggling to remember if there had ever been a time when that might have been possible. “During my school years, I—”

“A protective charm ensured against any _accidental_ removal.”

“But you said you had thought the traits had bypassed me altogether. Why bother?”

Lucius shrugged. “Prohibitive measures. While I had hoped you would not be tainted, I wasn’t about to leave such a thing up to chance.”

“You said ‘unwillingly removed’,” Draco pointed out. “What about willingly?”

Stroking his hair idly, Lucius smiled softly. “I gave the first strand to your mother. She had it spelled to thread through her own hair in a miniscule braid that was not visible to anyone save me. It provided protection when I could not be with her.” His smile dropped and sadness entered his eyes.

Draco laid a hand over his father’s, his own throat clogged. “Why did she die, then?”

“I can only assume that she was forced to remove it before she perished.” The last words were forced past his lips. “The strand provided protection, but ultimately could not prevent death.”

Draco’s brow rose. “Have you given more than one?”

Nodding, Lucius cleared his throat. “Every girl that has won _La Grande Danse_ had a single hair weaved unknowingly into their own locks.” He smiled devilishly. “Even with our intensive training, some of those oafs would not have won, and Veela traits are excluded from the ‘no magic’ clause of the competition.”

“How positively Slytherin of you, Father,” Draco mused. His gaze turned pensive. “You will not do this to Hermione.” 

“Of course not.” Standing, Lucius straightened his midnight blue waistcoat. “However, Miss Sacerdote does have a strand of mine, and considering her competitive nature while training, I do believe Miss Granger will be hard-pressed to beat her. She also has Mikhail Dvorovenko as her dance partner.”

Draco grimaced. “It would have to be him, wouldn’t it?” Dvorovenko was the most accomplished male dancer within the wizarding world. Women entered a lottery, years in advance, to be chosen to partner with the famous dancer, and that was after a rigorous audition to even be placed on the list. He could only surmise that Sacerdote had her father procure the dancer by other means.

Lucius paused for a moment. “Does Miss Granger have a dance partner?”

“Yes, me,” Draco said in a tone that brooked no argument.

“But you’ve never competed,” Lucius countered, taken aback.

“No one will touch her but me,” Draco assured him. “Is there any stipulation against it?”

“I will have to consult the rules again, but I do believe her instructor cannot be her partner.”

Draco smirked. “Ah, but _Paon Deux_ is the teacher, and the organizers have no clue it is run by either of us.”

“The specialized _Obliviate_ we use on prior students should allow you to move freely amongst them, but it is possible that others may recognise you.”

“My godfather should have a batch of Polyjuice on hand. I only need to procure the necessary ingredients.”

“Yes, that should work. Polyjuice is not registered as true magic in this competition due to the fact you are only changing your appearance, not your ability. Though I shudder to think on it, suppose all this comes to pass... and you lose?”

“No faith in me, Father?” Draco asked with a wink. “Regardless if she loses the competition or not, _I_ will be the one to win.”

Lucius crossed his arms and studied his son. “Finally accepted the fact she is your mate, then?”

Draco stretched out his fingers, the sharp nails having receded. “You know what they say: to be fond of dancing is a certain step towards falling in love.”

Lucius smiled briefly. “Your aggression will only continue to rise until you mark and mate with her. I am surprised you have held out this long, but it would be disastrous to attempt the competition without having done so. The potions Severus has sent will only do so much before you cannot be assuaged.”

Rubbing his temples, Draco groaned. “I know. I need to let her get used to the idea. May we postpone lessons tomorrow? I’d like to make a trip to London.”

“As you wish.” Lucius held up his hand to avert Draco’s warning. “I will not molest her in any way.”

Draco stood and rolled his shoulders to ease the tension that had set into the muscles. “I’m glad we understand each other, because sire or not, if you touch Hermione as you did today, you will die at my hand.” 

Lucius kept his gaze on the door after Draco left, knowing he wouldn’t go near the woman now that he knew his son’s happiness was on the line.

***

Hermione looked over her shoulder at the mirror, grimacing at the thin, red gashes adorning her back. “This is when I really need my wand,” she muttered to the image.

A soft knock to her bedroom door caused her irritation to ratchet up a notch. To be honest, she didn’t feel like dealing with either of the bastards right now. But it was _their_ manor, so she donned a dressing gown and answered the door. 

Draco stood, poised to knock again. “Hermione.” For the first time that she could recall, Draco seemed nervous. 

“Yes? Come to paw at my back again? You do realise that, unless you heal these scratches, I will have scars—ones that will be visible to the judges. Do they count against such a thing? I mean, I certainly can’t do it myself without my wand.”

“I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “But it’s not really my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault; I said I was going to blame you,” she huffed. She still hadn’t let him inside. “What do you want?” Her voice sounded tired and cracked.

He looked like he was about to touch her face, but withdrew his hand. “I wanted to let you know that there will be no lessons tomorrow. I’ll be away.”

Though surprised, she frowned. “Where are you going?” She did _not_ feel like her heart had dropped into her stomach at his news. Absolutely not.

“Business,” he hedged and dared to step closer. “Father has strict instructions not to touch you, so lessons would be pointless.”

Closing the open flap of her gown, she nodded curtly. That was quite alright with her. Lucius might have the silver-tongued allure of the Veela, but he otherwise made her nauseous with his advances... unlike his son. “Is there anything else?”

This time, he did touch her, cradling her cheek and rubbing the soft skin with the pad of his thumb. “Whatever you may think of me, I do care about you,” he whispered. “Dancing with the feet is one thing, but dancing with the heart is another.” He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead and Disapparated.

She realised she had forgotten to breathe until she gasped for air just after he’d left. Chest heaving, she noticed that the flesh on her back didn’t pain her any longer. Rushing to the bathroom, she shrugged off her gown and stared at the now smooth skin. The scratches were gone. He had healed her with a kiss? Were Veelas capable of such a thing?

She might have no lessons planned for the next day, but she was going to learn a few things from Lucius, even if she had to withstand his presence to do so.


	4. Chapter 4

Lucius directed the house-elf, Francois, to pour his guest a cup of tea. “Milk and sugar?”

“Milk, two sugars, please.”

The steaming cup was handed to the other wizard and both men relaxed, sipping in between bits of conversation.

“I still say you are fortunate that Minister Laurent allows you to serve your parole here.”

“I must agree,” Lucius concurred. “While there is no replacing Malfoy Manor, this château will do in times of need. The food is pleasantly tolerable here as well.”

“Your delicate constitution is grateful, I’m sure.”

“It has not been the same since...”

Even if Lucius didn’t complete the thought, both wizards knew of what he spoke; Narcissa’s death had stolen the vitality from her husband’s life, leaving him nothing more than a mere shell, unwilling to move on until he had secured his son’s future. Once that was accomplished, he would settle his affairs and quietly fade into the next realm. 

“How is Draco coping?”

Lucius gave the other wizard an exasperated look. “He took the sixth vial this morning before he left. Apparently, he and Miss Granger had a rather _heated_ parting.”

“I’m surprised, Lucius. Does the boy not have the wherewithal to entice the termagant into his bed?”

“To be honest, I believe she would gladly follow him into mindless bliss. No, the reticent one is Draco.”

“Draco?” A dark brow arched in speculation. “How so?”

“According to his mindset, he wishes to have her on _his_ terms,” Lucius said, disgusted. “While he possesses some of the Veela traits, his possessive streak emerges only if he feels Miss Granger, or his dominance concerning her, is threatened.”

An appreciative smirk bloomed on the other wizard’s face. “I take it you’ve pushed those limits, correct?” 

“She is a very responsive woman.” Lucius wore an identical expression. “Draco has chosen well. He has threatened to kill me on at least two occasions so far.”

“Only two? You’re not trying hard enough, then.”

“I would tell you to go to hell, but I live there and I don’t want to see you every day.” Lucius glanced at his wife’s picture. “Besides, my heart’s not in this particular game.”

There was a discreet cough, followed by, “I will miss our conversations.”

“As will I. But I miss her more,” Lucius whispered.

A knock on the study door broke the maudlin moment and Lucius was grateful for the interruption. “Enter.”

Hermione quietly stepped into the room, her eyes widening when they settled on Lucius’ guest. “Professor Snape!”

He sneered and tsk’d at her. “I haven’t been your professor for well over three years. Address me as I have given you leave to.”

She glanced at Lucius then returned her attention to Snape who was now standing. “Sorry, Severus. You needn’t end your visit; I can speak with Mister Malfoy later.”

Severus waved her off. “Potter has asked that I accompany him to find a suitable new house, as his was demolished recently.”

“Why didn’t Harry tell me about...” She stopped herself, remembering that of course Harry couldn’t communicate with her—he didn’t even know where she was, only that she was on ‘holiday’. 

She approached Severus and laid a hand on his arm. “Tell Harry and Ron not to worry, please? I know you can’t tell them where I am, but if you could reassure them in some way—”

“Are you done blathering?” Lucius groused, causing Severus to give him a sharp look.

Indignant, Hermione ignored him and continued speaking to Snape. “Will all of you attend the competition?”

“Of course not!” Lucius answered in Snape’s stead. “For Severus, Potter or Weasley to be seen at _La Grande Danse_ would ignite a maelstrom of gossip.”

“Do you mind?” Snape bit out. “I am perfectly capable of answering questions directed to my person.” Observing that Lucius was—dare he say it?—pouting, he focused on Hermione and nodded. “I will find a way, though you may not recognize me.” He turned to Lucius. “I suspect Miss Granger’s premiere would draw more rumours if Potter and Weasley were not in attendance, seeing as she is their bosom companion.”

Lucius just sneered and looked away from both of them. 

Severus leaned down and whispered in Hermione’s ear. “Look for the blonde next to Shacklebolt.”

She was happy with that bit of information. “Thank you.” Impulsively, she hugged him and stepped away. “Take care.”

Snape nodded and left via Floo. 

Crossing her arms, Hermione turned to glare at Lucius. “You’re a right bastard, you know?”

“Ensuring my company’s discretion is of the utmost importance, Miss Granger,” he practically snarled. “The specialised _Obliviate_ we use to remove knowledge of the instructors’ identities will not protect against society-at-large drawing the conclusion by our associates.” 

“Why are you so surly today?” she asked as she sat across from him.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the chair. “It has been a year since my wife was...” He trailed off, unable to finish. He was startled when he felt her hand take his.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Harry had told me what happened last year. I just hadn’t realised the significance of today.”

Clearing his throat, Lucius sat straighter. “Yes, well. I had not intended to linger this long.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

Extracting his hand from hers, mindful of Draco’s earlier words, Lucius stood and moved away to walk the perimeter of the room, aware of her eyes on him the entire time. “When a mated Veela pair are parted in death, the one left behind...” He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “The surviving mate may choose to end their existence so that they follow their loved one.”

“And you have not done so,” she mused aloud. Dear gods, he had to be miserable. 

Stopping mid-stride, Lucius looked at her with mild disdain. “Severus was right; you posses an exasperating knack for stating the obvious.”

Ignoring his jibe, she enquired, “Is this what Draco has to look forward to?” 

Resuming his walk, he explained, “I wish it were otherwise, but if you were to perish in some way—”

“Me?” she squeaked. 

Lucius tilted his head to study her. “Hasn’t Draco told you...” His lips thinned in irritation. “Of course not.” Blowing out a frustrated breath, he said, “It seems Draco has been remiss in his duties. What my son has failed to inform you of is that you are his mate.”

She stood quickly and began a furious pace, back and forth. “No, no! There has to be a mistake. I’m just reacting to his pheromones, his glamour, right? I can’t be his mate! I’m not even a pure-blood! And, Merlin’s bones, we are _not_ suited for each other in any way.”

Lucius blocked her path, leaning close. “Lie to yourself if you wish, but you will not lie to me. I’ve watched you and him these past four weeks—the way you both move in tandem, the way you caress each other during the dance. You cannot feign emotion like that, girl, not you, who wears your bleeding Gryffindor heart on your sleeve. And while Draco has more experience hiding and controlling his feelings, never once has he behaved the way he has with you.” He glared hard at her. “Ever!”

“Your grief has made you blind,” she whispered heatedly.

“Were I allowed to touch you, I would most definitely throttle you!” he shouted, his fists clenching at his sides. “As it is, you can only hope to, one day, become worthy of my son.” That said, he stormed from the study, the door rattling the frame upon being slammed.

***

Hermione sat in the window seat that overlooked the ornate, manicured grounds, watching rivulets of rain make their way down the panes of glass instead of concentrating on the book she’d snagged from the Malfoy library. She casually glanced at the woman who was undulating across the page in sparse clothing, wondering if she could ever achieve such a thing.

Not likely. 

For one, she was not—she turned the page and gasped— _not_ that flexible. Second, she had enough trouble performing in the clothes they had chosen for her. The pictured outfit was nothing more than a bra and sheer harem pants that hung so low, she wouldn’t be surprised if the woman’s cunny was suddenly to be on display. Ah, well. Once this whole fiasco was over, she’d go back to being predictable, comfortable Hermione Granger, aide to the Minister. 

Studying the picture, her thoughts wandered to Draco, and what he was doing, where he was. Not that she cared. No, not one bit. But if she was to be trained, he should be here... right? At least, that was what she reasoned. It wasn’t because she glowed from the inside out when he was with her. Nor the fact that, when he touched her, she could see only him while everything else fell to the wayside. It definitely couldn’t be the way he kissed her as though he were devouring his favourite dessert, with passion, an insatiable hunger, and a hint of some unnamed emotion.

 _Pull yourself together, Granger; you’re here to get the job done and win, not make moon-eyes at the ferret._

Oh, but it was so easy to fall under his spell. Yes, he had been a loathsome, foul little cockroach in school, but the war had changed everyone. Add to that the loss of his mother and, Hermione suspected, keeping Lucius amongst the living, and Draco had indeed changed, though she still wasn’t sure if it was for the better. He was just… different. 

She begrudgingly admitted to herself that she had spared a glance or two at him during school, but if ever questioned about it, would deny it vehemently. Now, however, she could possibly say she admired his resiliency. Down, but never out. He knew what his strengths were, and he used them to his best advantage, like every worthy Slytherin.

“What are you reading?”

She screamed and flung the book at the intruder, hitting him in the chest. “Damn it, Draco! Could you make some noise when you walk?”

He smiled unrepentantly. “Got it from Severus.” He bent low and picked up the book. “ _Danse du Ventre_.” His eyebrows rose. “Are you interested in this?”

Her cheeks flooded with crimson. “No!” she protested. At his sceptical look, she huffed, “Do I seriously look anything like those women?”

Flipping through several pages, Draco paused on one very erotic pose. “No.”

Hermione’s heart ached at his words, and she bit her lip to keep the disappointment at bay.

“You look much better.” 

A small sound escaped her mouth before she was pulled into his arms. “What are you doing?”

Maybe it was the thought of her dressed in the same provocative clothing that had graced the pages of the book she was reading. It was possibly the restraint he had shown in the past month had finally broken, never to return where she was concerned. Whatever it was, something had snapped and he couldn’t help himself. “Enough dancing _around_ each other, Hermione,” he purred in her ear. 

“Draco, this isn’t a good idea,” she objected while trying, and failing, to remove herself from his grasp.

“You know you’re my mate,” he insisted, not letting her retreat. “I can smell how ready you are.” He inhaled deeply, dark blue edging into his irises. “I tried to give you enough time.”

Chest heaving, Hermione could only stare transfixed at his terrible beauty. “You don’t love me,” she declared half-heartedly.

He spelled open his crisp dress-shirt and gently took her hand, placing it on his chest. “The beginning is there, _ma chérie_.”

His voice thrummed in her veins. She stroked the sculpted pectoral where he’d left her hand, his skin feverish and dusted with light-blond hair. His nipples were a dusky mauve and eager for her touch. When she flicked one with the edge of her thumbnail, he panted harshly and gripped her wrist.

“Will you have me?” he grated out, and she could tell he was restraining himself with iron control so as not to scare her. “Because once I taste you, there’s no going back.”

“Do I have a choice?”

He gave her a lop-sided smirk. “Not really. I would pursue you to the ends of the world, if need be.” 

“Ends of the world? Really?” The question had a teasing lilt to it; her eyes were suddenly alight with mischief, the corners of her lips curling impishly. Leaning in close, she let her hot breath tickle his mouth as she whispered, “You have me trapped in this…” Her eyes darted about before locking with his. “… _cage_ for two months. If I am to succumb to being your mate, then I’m going to make you work for it, to put you to the test.”

In an unexpected turn, and with a lissomness he’d never suspected the witch possessed, she had wrenched free of his hold. Draco smiled and watched her childish antics with amusement as she raced down the corridor, her laughter pealing through the air, taunting him. The Veela in him itched to hunt her down, finding the chase just as exhilarating as the capture. 

But Draco wanted Hermione and he wanted her _now_. “There’ll be time enough for games later,” he murmured to himself.

Hermione had made it through the door and was partway down the hall, before the pop of Apparition sounded, and she ran into a solid wall of Draco flesh. Muscled arms banded like steel around her and her eyes widened with surprise at being caught off guard.

“Silly little bird,” Draco mockingly chastised the now panting witch. As quickly as this playful endeavour had began, the smile fell from his face just as fast, his expression turning intense, causing Hermione to shiver at the heat emanating from his eyes.

He tugged her close, his hand splayed on her lower back, pressing his erection into the crux of her thighs. “Dance _with_ me,” he husked. Another pop of Apparition and he had brought them to the practice studio where he called out for music to fill the room.

There was no escape from him, from this. She knew that now. More importantly, she no longer cared. The Veela in Draco recognized its mate and Hermione understood her future was intertwined with his. Now, forever, and beyond the grave. That not even death could separate them left her in awe. 

The slow, sensual beat that filled the room pulled Hermione from her ruminations, the bass-heavy vibrations thrumming through every nerve of her being. Her core clenched when Draco used the erotic rhythm of the music, hips undulating against hers, his one hand sliding further down to cup her bottom while the other ghosted up her spine to grip her nape possessively. 

A man sang out in a raspy, desperate tone against a back-drop of whispered grunts and moans, against resonant percussion and violins, the strings plucked staccato, their echo stretching through the room, haunting and beautiful. The music didn’t beg, but demanded the pair to embrace in a dance of flesh on flesh. 

Heart racing as he backed her up against the wall, Hermione became somewhat alarmed. “Draco, I-I don’t… I…” Averting her eyes, she tried again to explain her lack of experience. “It’s just th-that I’ve never—” 

“Shhh,” he halted her on a whisper. “There’s no need to be nervous. You were never meant for anyone but me,” he explained, as he slid his fingers under her chin, forcing her to look at him 

Claws extended from each of Draco's fingers, their sharp, talon-like tips gleaming even in the muted glow. He ran them over the shell of her ear with infinite care, humming his approval at her gasps. She could tell it was taking all of his restraint to keep his desire at bay by how gentle he was being with something so potentially deadly.

Coaxing her down the wall and laying her on the floor, he cast a Cushioning Charm underneath them, wasting no time divesting them both of their clothing with a flick of his wand, loving the heady feel of her skin flush with his. They both wanted this, needed this to happen, but he could tell the sight of his erection put her slightly on edge.

“It will fit, you'll see. Relax,” he told her, and just the sound of his voice compelled her to do what he asked. “I need to taste you, mark you, first,” he panted out.

Sliding down her body and perching himself between her legs, he parted her knees and growled, causing her to shudder. His mouth watered at the sight of her dewy cleft so close to his face as the scent of her desire surrounded his senses. She had a neatly trimmed triangle of curls atop her mons, leaving everything else bare and the primal instinct that now roared to the surface drove him to acquaint himself with the flavour of her arousal. Concentrating on his fingers, he was able to sheath his talons before wrapping his hands around her thighs to hold her in place. 

Lowering his head, he knew the first swipe of his tongue hit her right where she ached because her eyes fluttered shut. The initial taste also caused his canines to elongate and a substance that tasted like liquid sex coated them. Siphoning the fluid, he spread it over his tongue before feathering her folds and flicking her clit. It pushed her close to the edge and she cried out his name. 

“Draco! Oh gods!” He licked the entire length of her sex with the flat of his tongue, and her nerves instantly unravelled as every muscle in her body stiffened. 

“Tastes so good, love.” He took another long, hard swipe at her. “So ripe... so delicious.” Tilting his head, he gathered the pouty lips of her sex to briefly suckle and tease, his ears filling with the sound of her delightful whimpering. “Want you to come in my mouth.” 

Glancing down between her legs, Hermione found two piercing dark blue eyes staring back at her with such intensity that she wanted to look away but couldn’t. Draco was completely under the sway of the Veela now, and the gleam drew her in, trapping her as if under a thrall. He studied her face, gauging her reaction to every sweep of his tongue, every nibble he took of her sensitive flesh making her powerless to everything save the bliss coursing through her body. 

Placing both hands to the inside of her thighs, he used his thumbs to unfold the soft, swollen petals of her sex and turned his head sideways to engage her in an open-mouthed kiss, plunging his tongue deep within her walls. She screamed and writhed above him, but he was unrelenting. He planned on staying between her legs, paying reverence to her sweetness for as long as it took until he had drank of her heavenly juices. 

Hermione threw her head back, her fingers gripping his hair tightly, as she arched off the floor from his continued assault. She was unsure whether she wanted more or needed to escape from the onslaught of his talents. He finally pulled away, but it was only to flick his tongue rapidly over her nubbin, causing her hips to jerk as she cried out his name again. 

“Gods, Draco... I can’t—”

“You will.” Without warning, he pressed his mouth to her right thigh and embedded his fangs into her supple flesh, injecting the substance into her bloodstream. 

Her back bowed at an unnaturally steep angle as she screamed her release, the venom coursing throughout her body heightening the pleasure. With each pull of his mouth, she spiralled higher until a thousand stars burst behind her eyelids. 

Fangs retracted, Draco withdrew his mouth, wrapped one arm around her leg, and used the other hand to slide two fingers inside her. Pumping them in and out, he latched onto her clit to suck hard. Her frenzied reaction caused him to moan, knowing he was giving her so much pleasure. His fingers brushed against her barrier, and he moaned again, aware that she would never know the touch of another man, that she was his fully. As she moaned his name one more time, he knew this was only the beginning of a lifetime of hearing her utter it so beautifully in ecstasy. 

Everything Draco did felt so good, it forced all thought from her mind, leaving her only with the basal need for completion of the physical journey this man was taking her on. She felt him shift lower until his head was pillowed on her thigh, then he began to worry her clit between his teeth, his fingers sliding teasingly in and out of her core. 

Lust stirred deep within Draco’s aching cock, making him feverish with the need to possess her, but his desire to taste her essence still thrummed in his blood. Desperate to bring her to completion once more, he increased his attentions to her beautiful body. 

Her hands flew to his head when he unexpectedly curled two fingers inside her to rub that sensitive bundle of nerves in small, rapid circles. “Oh, Draco... that feels so good.” His innate ability to know precisely where to touch her and with how much pressure was overwhelming. There was a tickle to her thigh while his other hand touched her lightly, and the tremors of passion took hold, preparing her body for the impending bliss she was sure would swiftly follow. 

With his thumb finding her hooded button, Draco bore down on the precious bud, circling it in time with the pleasuring of her passage, his mouth at the ready to receive the first drop of her release. At the signal of her walls fluttering around his fingers, he gave her three more strokes then replaced them with his mouth and tongued her deeply. 

“Oh gods!” As Hermione rose quickly to the height of her orgasm, her body took off on its own, shuddering violently from the combined sensations Draco’s tongue and fingers created, catapulting her into a state of euphoria unimagined. 

His mouth and chin were drenched from his efforts to capture all of the divine essence that spilled from her. The tang of her spirit infused his tongue to run a drunken path straight to his cock, making him harder than he thought possible. And although she had yet to come down, he could no longer wait. 

Placing a kiss to her mound, he crawled his way up to hover over her and poised his cock at her entrance with one hand. As soon as her eyes opened, he pushed his way inside, past her barrier, burying himself to the hilt within her satiny heat. He watched her mouth open wide to gasp as she clawed at his back and arched into him, tears gathering at the edge of her lashes. He wished he could have allowed her more time, but he knew this coupling would be short and only gave her a moment to adjust from his sudden invasion before leisurely rolling his hips, driving his cock in an ever deepening circle inside her pliant body. 

“Come for me again, Hermione,” he encouraged her, lost in her strangling hold to his shaft. 

His voice spoke out, but she couldn’t hear. His face was there but she couldn’t see. All she heard was the pounding of blood racing through her veins and all she saw were the bright colours that replaced the pinnacle of her orgasm for another so intense, she thought she might pass out. The only thing that brought her back was her own taste when his mouth covered hers for a kiss so passionate it threatened to steal her very life’s breath. 

Reaching both hands underneath to cup her bottom, he tilted her up at an angle to keep their bodies flush, delighted when her knees bent and legs opened wide, offering herself completely. He curled his hips to thrust sharply, keeping the full length of his cock enshrined within the snug grip of her heaven. 

The pace he set was deliberate, carefully timed to draw out her orgasm with each forceful thrust he delivered. The strength he put into each stroke had her fingers digging deeper and deeper into his back, holding on for dear life as he struck her clit and the sensitive nerves within. Every muscle soon quivered from the prolonged bliss that racked her body, as if knowing it couldn’t sustain its reaction to the level of stimulation it was receiving. As the energy slowly drained from her body, she twitched around him, thankful he picked up on this and altered his movements by drawing his cock out little by little, spacing his strokes further apart each time to ease the friction from her pleasure points. 

“So bloody beautiful,” he rasped. “And all mine.” He could feel her heart hammering through her chest to his and knew she wanted to reply. Her struggled attempts to catch her breath, however, had him quickly hushing her efforts. “Don’t talk, just let me take care of you.” He smiled, nuzzling his cheek into her neck. She really was amazing to him—the way she clung to him with her tiny hands, how her slender form quaked in ecstasy beneath him, how she clenched around his cock so tightly he didn’t dare pull back. He knew he could do this a hundred thousand times and _still_ never get enough of her. 

He rocked into her, taking long, deep strokes that brought the head of his cock to emerge from her entrance, lightly stimulating her when the tip brushed her folds before easing his length back inside. When he could hold back no longer, Draco gave five punishing thrusts before erupting with a hoarse shout, bathing her warm depths with his seed. Bent low over her, he then continued to thrust casually, delighting in the small tremors that shook them both. 

His movements were so cautious that he made Hermione feel as if she were the most precious thing in the world to him. Letting her eyes slide shut, she sighed at the tenderness with which he was treating her. 

“Stay with me, Hermione,” he whispered, kissing her softly behind her ear, fearing she was going to sleep. Bringing his hand up to gently wipe away the light sheen of perspiration from her forehead, he continued making love to her while smoothing away her hair. Feeling her hands move up his back towards his neck, he lifted his head to see her eyes open slowly. “There’s my girl.” 

A contented smile was all she could manage. She traced his dark blond brows and ran her fingers down his aquiline nose, finally touching his pert lips. “We should’ve done this ages ago.”

Still deep within her, Draco tried not to laugh. “I thought you liked the build up of all that sexual tension. Not to mention the blue-balls I got every time I held you for longer than five minutes.”

She laughed lightly. “I must admit I rather enjoyed watching you indiscreetly shift your _problem_ around whenever your father was in the room.”

He pinched her side and withdrew from her warm body. “Evil wench. I think you like making me suffer.”

“Of course I do,” she said mischievously. “Why do you think I made you wait this long to catch me?” 

He stared at her incredulously. “Why you conniving, little—”

She placed a finger over his lips. “Tell me you didn’t enjoy it!”

“I enjoy this more.” He nipped her finger in a playful kiss and sat up, pulling her with him.

“Merlin, I ache all over,” she groaned, leaning against his chest.

“Let me remedy that.” Embracing her, he Apparated them to his chambers to reacquaint himself with his mate.


	5. Chapter 5

The second month of her preparation had included yoga classes along with Tai Chi, to help with her balance, and an hour of meditation each day that did wonders for her concentration. Occasionally, Lucius would test Draco’s possessive streak by directing the lesson and trying to insinuate himself in between her and his son, but Draco would snarl and pull her closer, placing his hand on her inner right thigh, which bore the evidence of their mating. 

There were several days towards the last two weeks where they would do nothing scripted or planned, instead just playing and having fun while dancing. Draco had explained that, oftentimes, many amateur dancers put too much thought into the technical aspects, and became too focused on their routines, moves, and ranking, which made them look stiff and affected their dancing in a negative way. When she’d found it hard to ‘let go,’ he had cautioned that judges could usually tell when the sole concentration had been on technique. 

Her dress was a _haute couture_ work of art. The bodice was black satin, encrusted with gold and silver crystals in a paisley-type pattern, with thin gold spaghetti straps to show off her shoulders, and a heart-shaped décolletage to accentuate her ample breasts. The waistline was cinched at the top, leading to a flared black satin skirt with a black lace ruffle along the scalloped hem and gauzy black overlay that allowed for extreme freedom of movement. Arm cuffs in the same material as her skirt would adorn her biceps, the swathe of gossamer fabric creating a nymph-like appearance whenever she twirled. Black satin shoes with the same pattern as her bodice would grace her feet. 

The first time Draco had seen her in the dress, she’d nearly had to have another one made since he had ravished her within an inch of her life, leaving them both breathless in the dress-maker’s studio. The second time, he had used the hairs he had snagged while in London and Polyjuiced himself into the man that was to be her dance partner, dressed to match her in trim black trousers, bolero jacket that had the same design as her bodice, and a crisp white linen shirt. Hermione had been unable to keep her hands off him. That time, the designer refused to have them fitted in her studio again, swearing at them in French for having defiled her work area. 

Because nothing magical could be affixed to the dancer’s person, Hermione’s performance shoes had been worn during the last two weeks of practice, so as to be broken in and not cause blisters. She also wore her dress and undergarments—black cotton knickers and nude stockings—for those two weeks, casting a Cleansing Charm suitable for delicate items after each use. Her hair, still unmanageable, was to be braided on each side of her head then wound somewhat loosely around into a crown, tendrils springing free and curling beautifully about her face. Light make-up would be applied, with only tinted lip gloss. Draco knew Hermione’s tendency to lick her lips until they were chapped would negate the use of actual lipstick as they couldn’t even affix a charm that would prevent smearing. 

There was nothing more Lucius Malfoy could do for Hermione to prepare her for _La Grande Danse_ ; he had wrought his talent upon her and changed practically everything about her. 

But there was something more Draco could do.

Two days before the competition, Draco removed a single strand of his shoulder-length platinum hair and offered it to Hermione, uncertainty shining in his eyes. She stared at it, her mouth agape, so he assumed she knew what kind of treasure she had been gifted. With a tremulous smile, she nodded, turned, and brushed aside some of her hair, giving him access to several places he could weave said strand. 

He pressed feather-light kisses on the nape of her neck before selecting a particularly curled lock and murmuring the spell that wove his hair around it, infusing her with protection, devotion, and love. When she turned to face him afterwards, his breath was stolen at the vision she presented. 

He could say that was the moment he had fallen in love with his mate, Hermione Granger.

***

The morning of the competition found the lovers buried underneath the covers in Draco’s bedchamber. While Hermione was still deeply asleep, Draco had been awake for hours, curled around her protectively, watching her. She was nothing like the witch that had tumbled into his life some two months before. 

He skimmed the surface of her skin with his long fingers, smiling contentedly as he watched it instinctively react to his nearness. They had loved slow and long the night before, tasting each other, desire and passion overwhelming them at times. She would be spectacular in her movements that day, especially now that they knew each other’s body intimately. He knew that if he pulled her closer to his hips than was customary for a normal dance partner, she would be able to gain extra leverage for one of the more strenuous leg manoeuvres for the Tango. And because she trusted him implicitly, Draco could balance her above his head, twirling before letting her slide down his body to the correct position at his feet. Any of these moves would’ve been impossible at the beginning, but she had now tasted what it felt like to be thoroughly loved and the natural motions that intrinsically imprinted themselves in her every day actions.

Once he had marked her, the tension between them had eased considerably, just as Lucius had promised. Draco had asked his father at one point why he had not seen the attraction during their Hogwarts years, but had been reminded with a sardonic smile that he would often talk incessantly about the ‘Granger girl’ and how she was always showing him up, how preoccupied he’d been with her throughout their schooling. It had been a precursor, Lucius had said, a mating dance of sorts, to see if the other was worthy. Yes, time and circumstance had separated them for several years, but when in one another’s presence again, it was as if the sleeping beast had finally awakened. 

And when Draco thrust home into her welcoming heat that first time, he’d known why his father had pined for his mother so badly. He couldn’t imagine the rest of his days without the witch currently turning over to bury her nose against his neck.

“Draco,” Hermione murmured sleepily. 

He smiled to himself and pressed a soft kiss on her forehead. “Good morning, little bird.”

She returned his smile without opening her eyes while stretching like a contented cat. “What time is it?”

Draco glanced towards the French doors. “Just after dawn.” He wrapped his arms around her, his lips fluttering about her temple. “We have a half hour before we need to start preparations.”

Hermione groaned and thumped her head on his chest with a slight whimper. “I’m only going to admit this once, Draco Malfoy, so mark this occasion well: I’m utterly frightened about today.”

Frowning, he tilted her chin up until she was looking at him. “We’ve practiced ceaselessly, and never have you complained, never have you faltered, even when Father and I asked the impossible of you.” A lingering kiss left her with a muzzy expression. “I have every faith in you today, Hermione.”

“But I took the wrong stance during the final simulation,” she complained. “They will deduct points for that in a real competition.”

The Malfoys had held a mock competition to acclimate Hermione to the contest atmosphere without the stress of its reality, allowing her to develop the endurance and perfect her technique. It was true she had assumed the wrong starting position for the Foxtrot, but that was minor in comparison to her overall performance. “Remember what Lucius said: keep going, even if you make a mistake. The judges may catch it, but they are more forgiving if you don’t react to your mistake. Don’t let one wrong move dictate the rest of the dance.”

“I’ll try, but the other dancers are all so much more talented than me.”

He caressed her cheek. “A famous dancer once said, ‘I do not try to dance better than anyone else. I only try to dance better than myself.’ If you are confident in yourself, it will shine through in anything you do. Dance is the only art wherein we ourselves are the stuff in which it is made.”

“Who knew that Draco Malfoy was a romantic philosopher? Certainly not I,” she teased with a grin.

Placing her hand over his heart, he feigned a hurt look. “You wound me, love.” He slapped her on her pert arse and added, “Time for breakfast.”

She turned a little green. “I don’t think I can manage anything this morning. I’m too nervous.”

“You have to eat—something small, perhaps,” he admonished. “Dancing on a full stomach is almost as bad as dancing on an empty stomach. If you don't eat at all, then you risk having no energy on the dance floor when you need it most. Fruit and yoghurt or a cereal bar will do.” He pulled her from the bed and wrapped her dressing gown around her. “Water as well. Dehydration can be very dangerous and may lead to muscle cramps or even black outs.”

Her colour paled. “Black outs?” 

He tugged her close and embraced her fully. “I swear I won’t let anything happen to you.” He felt her nod against his chest. “Good. Now, come on. It’s show time.”

***

The overwhelming noise of the crowd grated on Hermione’s already frayed nerves. 

“There would have to be thousands of people here, wouldn’t there?” she lamented as she gazed upon the immense audience. 

Indeed, there were at least ten thousand people gathered, the box seats flanking the judges’ podium filled with Ministers from different countries, some as far away as the States and Australia. She scanned the guests for the British Minister, finding him three boxes away and to the right. 

“Harry and Ron are sitting with Kingsley!” she squealed, clapping her hand over her mouth to keep from hyperventilating. “And I think that’s Severus, right next to them, though I didn’t know he would glamour himself to look like...” She tilted her head to the left to study the blonde beside Shacklebolt, just as Severus had instructed her. “Erm, a woman?”

“He always did like to play dress-up,” Draco observed over her shoulder, earning himself a nervous giggle from Hermione. “Too bad Lucius’ parole prevented him from being here. He would’ve given Snape a run for his money.”

“Stop,” she whispered harshly. She turned and had to force herself not to do a double-take. “Just how many hairs did you pull from... what was his name?”

“It doesn’t matter; he was a Muggle. I’ve given the judges the name of Alex Elssler.” Polyjuiced Draco touched the queue of long, tawny locks. “It’s been interesting, trying to get used to this body while practicing.” His now green eyes flashed with mirth.

“I don’t know,” she teased, “I sort of like this new you.”

His expression became stormy and he pulled her into a darkened alcove, waiting until a couple of dancers had passed them before speaking. “You are _mine_ , Hermione,” he growled low, loving the way it clearly affected her. “You will not touch this Muggle body once I am through using it for the competition.”

“Lovers’ spat?” purred a voice behind Draco.

Hermione and Draco turned to peer at a voluptuous woman that had dark mahogany waves, richly tanned skin, and cool brown eyes. “Nothing of the sort,” Hermione said primly. 

The woman gave them both a shrewd look. “You are Hermione Granger, si?” She glanced at Draco, not recognising him in the least, for which Draco was extremely relieved. 

“And if I were?” Hermione challenged, hands on hips. 

“Then I would suggest that you abandon the competition,” the woman said with a seductive smile. “For I am going to win, and you will become an object of ridicule.”

“Who are you?” Draco snarled. He, of course, knew who she was, but could not reveal himself to her. 

“The winner of _La Grande Danse_ , Isabella Sacerdote.” She had no pretence of humility. 

“What makes you so sure that you will win?” asked another contestant off to their right as a crowd gathered. “You have the same chance as any of us.”

“No, I have _Paon Deux_ ,” Isabella boasted. 

Several gasps echoed throughout the training room and Hermione caught Draco rolling his eyes. 

“So they are talented at what they do,” Draco said with disdain. “That proves nothing.”

“Oh, they are _very_ talented,” Isabella assured him with a lascivious smirk, her tongue wetting her lips. “They made me dance all. Night. Long.”

Hermione swallowed thickly, anger and jealousy roiling in her stomach.. This must have been Draco’s prior conquest before Hermione had been dropped into the middle of their lives. Her first instinct was to claw out the other woman’s eyes, but she drew in a deep breath and let it slowly unfurl between her lips. Draco’s past didn’t matter. Hermione was his future and, with every bit of confidence she possessed, she gracefully stepped around Draco to face the harpy.

“Is that why you walk like a slag?”

There were several snorts of laughter, including Draco’s. 

Isabella’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “At least I know how to satisfy a man, _niñita_. What can you do?”

“She helped defeat the Dark Lord,” someone in the crowd pointed out.

Stepping closer, Isabella caressed Hermione’s cheek. “Si, she did. But what can you do that does not require magic?” She looked the shorter witch up and down. “I bet there are cobwebs between your legs.”

Isabella was abruptly shoved backwards by Draco. “Do not touch her again unless you wish to lose some vital part of your anatomy,” he hissed.

“Are you threatening me?” Isabella glanced at the smug look on Hermione’s face and curled her lip, turning her attention to the man standing next to her. “I could satisfy you better than she can, _guapo_.”

Draco didn’t have time to intervene, because Hermione was already lunging towards Isabella in a magnificent fit of rage. He grabbed his mate before she could lay a hand on the offensive witch, knowing if she touched Sacerdote, Hermione would be disqualified.

“You will _never_ have him!” Hermione snarled while trying to wiggle out of Draco’s grasp. “You would completely destroy anything good that came into your life, so go ahead and waste yourself on men that want only your fame or money, but you will never have him!”

Incensed, Isabella kicked Hermione’s knee with her sharp heel, causing Hermione to cry out. “See if your man will have you now!” Sacerdote stormed off to the warm-up area.

Several contestants followed Sacerdote while others helped Draco and Hermione to a bench so that she could sit. Draco would have gone after Isabella, but he needed to stay with his witch.

“I thought your hair was supposed to protect me,” Hermione whispered in Draco’s ear.

He looked over her bruised knee. “It did. You’ve got a painful bruise, at most. She meant to break your kneecap.”

She winced when his fingers drifted over it. “Metal kneecaps, remember?” 

“That will be something I’ll tell our children, how their mother nearly emasculated me on the first day of her training and put their lives in jeopardy.”

Hermione stilled at his words. “Children.” A panicky feeling filled her chest. “We haven’t been using protection, Draco,” she murmured harshly. “What if I’m pregnant right now?”

Draco laid a hand on her fluttering stomach and began rubbing in soothing circles. “You’re not; I would be able to tell. Plus, I wouldn’t have let you perform.”

Brow arched, she crossed her arms. “ _Let_ me? Let’s get one thing straight, Draco Malfoy—”

“You’re going to go off on a tangent, aren’t you?” He really needed to talk to the judges about Sacerdote’s behaviour.

“And if you think that, just because I’m your mate, you can dictate how I run my life and—oomph!” 

He effectively silenced her with a heated kiss until he felt all resistance leave her. “Better?” 

She ran her fingers over her knee, and while it still twinged a bit, it wasn’t as bad as it had been. “Yes, thank you.” 

There was a loud announcement that _La Grande Danse_ was about to commence and contestants should either be practicing or on the floor ready to dance. Draco’s window of opportunity to speak to the judges had just closed, unfortunately, because no dancers could approach the officials once the tournament began, so he concentrated on keeping his mate from panicking.

Hermione stood quickly and began wringing her hands. “Oh goddess, oh Merlin!”

Draco took her cold fingers, warming them with his. “Why are you doing this? You know the material and the music better than any student we’ve ever had.”

She nodded, biting her lip as she was wont to do. “Even better than Sacerdote?”

He laid his forehead on hers and nuzzled her nose. “You, Hermione Granger, could kick her arse all over the world and back, and still look bloody fantastic while doing it.”

She wrapped her arms around him and took several deep breaths. “Forget about the world; I just need to kick it all over the dance floor.”

Draco pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “That’s my woman.” He pulled back and grabbed her hand. “Come on, our first dance is in ten minutes.”

***

Each couple had to perform three types of dance. Draco and Hermione chose the Tango, the Foxtrot, and the Rumba—all dances that she had excelled at while training. She was proficient in Waltz and Paso Doble, but Lucius had argued that the Waltz was too slow for her and the opportunity to make mistakes increased while the Paso Doble made her look like a matador ready to slay a bull.

Hermione’s favourite was the Foxtrot; she loved the Big Band era type of music and this dance allowed for fewer restrictions in movement. Draco preferred the Tango, where he could hold her close and pivot his hips against hers. Rumba was the slowest of the Latin dances she had learned and she loved the hip-sway over the standing leg, which brought her nearer to Draco. Of course, there were other dances the competitors could choose from, but those particular ones had been selected a month earlier and there had been concentrated study in each. 

They both had a number attached to their backs—Hermione’s a little lower due to the cut of her dress—and they took their places for the first dance: the Tango.

Draco led with his whole body once the music began, Hermione following effortlessly amongst the twenty other couples. They melded their bodies into one, in total synchronisation with each other. Draco would deliberately lift and place his foot down in a staccato action, urging Hermione to follow, while their heads snapped to suddenly freeze and then melt into the slowness of Tango. 

Several times they narrowly avoided bumping into other couples, but they retained the ability to continue dancing without pause when boxed in. To the judges, it showed the command of the couple over their choreography, as well as Draco’s skill to choose and lead extrinsic to their usual work when the necessity presented itself.

When the music came to a halt, there was cheering the likes of which Hermione had never heard before, and as she panted heavily and waved her arms in the air, she found that she could quickly become addicted to the euphoria coursing through her veins. Draco waved with her, tugging her hand to place a fervent kiss on the back of it then releasing it. 

All the couples bowed and left the floor while attendants readied the area for another group. It would be two hours before Hermione and Draco performed again, so they relaxed in the training room, talking softly so as not to disturb the other contestants who were still practicing. 

“How’s your knee?” Draco asked, slipping a flask from his jacket pocket.

Hermione rubbed the bruise. “It’s a bit achy.” Sipping from her own bottle of water, she watched him gulp two mouthfuls of the Polyjuice he had brought with him. 

“Bloody disgusting stuff,” he said with a grimace. He replaced the cap and stowed it away for the next lull. “How do you feel about your performance?”

A silly grin spread across her face. “Of all the things I’ve done in my short life, I can say that was, by far, the most powerful I’ve experienced.”

“Hey, what about me?”

She leaned over and kissed him. “You know, you’re irresistible when you pout.”

“Excuse me, Miss Granger?”

Hermione turned to see a younger woman standing at the entrance to the room, Kingsley Shacklebolt at her side. “You have a visitor.”

Glancing quickly at Draco, Hermione asked, “Am I allowed visitors?”

Malfoy nodded slightly, now wary of the man whose eyes were shining when he looked upon Draco’s mate. “The woman is a Tournament official. She’ll monitor your actions to make sure no magic is cast upon you without your knowledge.”

“Right.” Hermione rose from her seat and approached Kingsley. “I should be furious with you.”

Kingsley’s smile fell, though he left his arms open for a hug. “But you were magnificent, Hermione! Wasn’t it worth two months of study?”

She moved into his embrace hesitantly. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Stepping back, she had the sudden urge to cover herself from his stare. “I hope I win for the sake of the Ministry.” _But not for you_ , was left unsaid. 

“On the grave of Albus Dumbledore, I promise to never put you in this sort of position again.”

“A likely story,” she said with a snort. “Next week you’ll probably have me counting the vampire population on the continent.”

Shacklebolt looked decidedly nervous. “Erm, well, no. I _had_ planned for you to do that, but Luna volunteered to organize the covens, and the project was successful.”

“Oh.” Feeling Draco at her back, Hermione gave the Minister an insincere smile as she leaned against her dance partner. “I’m glad she’s working out for you.”

Having watched the entire exchange, Draco wound an arm possessively around Hermione’s shoulders. “You’re hiding something, Minister.” He could smell the man’s anxiety a mile away.

“I don’t like your tone, young man,” Kingsley warned, levelling the stranger with a heated glare.

“I don’t like the way you look at Hermione or the way you speak to her,” Draco returned, tightening his grip on his mate.

“Easy, Draco,” she said under her breath, stroking his arms to sooth his proverbial ruffled feathers.

 _The Foxtrot will commence in two minutes!_

“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll need to return to your seat,” the attendant requested, placing a hand on Kingsley’s upper arm. 

The Minister gave Draco a calculating look and then turned with a flourish, his colourful robes whipping about him as he left.

“He could give Severus a run for his money in the ‘billowing cloak’ department,” Hermione observed.

“Severus outclasses that fool any day.” 

She turned in his arms. “Draco, what is it?”

He laid his cheek alongside hers. “What happens after the competition?”

She had concentrated so hard on her dancing, and then Draco, that she hadn’t considered what would happen _after_ the tournament. “I have a life, back in London,” she murmured, clutching at him. 

_Last call for Foxtrot!_

“Bloody hell!” Draco kissed her passionately and pulled her out of the room to join the other couples already positioned on the floor.

Draco and Hermione assumed the correct stance and began the Foxtrot, stealing time from one step to allow another to hover. Knowing powerful movements were an asset in this dance, they both channelled their emotions into the correct swing of their bodies, the lilt of the music matched only by their actions. Hermione stroked her feet across the floor to achieve smoothness and softness, while Draco used the appropriate shape on outside partner steps to ensure body contact was maintained. They were allowed to improvise to a certain degree, and they did so, incorporating both quick and slow movements into the routine. They were graceful and romantic, conveying to their audience—and ultimately the judges—the embodiment of love. 

This time, when the music ended, the crowd roared even louder, with several whistles aimed towards Hermione and Draco. She glanced at Kingsley’s box and saw Harry and Ron standing, cheering her on. The woman to Shacklebolt’s left nodded discreetly with a hint of a smirk. Hermione returned the gesture and finally bowed.

In the training room, Draco found a secluded spot, away from prying eyes, and led Hermione there. “You were superb, love.”

She was still trying to catch her breath. “So were you!” Her smile was contagious. “Oh, Draco, this feeling is absolutely amazing!”

“Now you know why my family has done this for generations. It’s not only the prestige, it’s feeling that rush whenever you win.”

Her expression faltered somewhat. “But I haven’t won. I won’t even know my scores until the end.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He cupped her face and pressed soft kisses on her smooth and flushed skin. “Regardless of how today turns out, you win, Hermione.”

“Draco,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him, practically sitting in his lap.

They stayed that way for the duration of the time left to them, Draco stopping only to sip from his flask once more, and Hermione to snack on an energy bar and have some juice. Once the tournament was completed, Draco vowed to approach the judges and inform them of the violation of the rules where Isabella Sacerdote was concerned. 

When time was nearing for them to prepare for the last dance, he lifted her weary form from his lap and brushed a few tendrils away from her eyes. She looked so very tired, but he was proud of her perseverance. “Last one. Are you ready?”

She yawned but nodded. “I think the first thing I’m going to do after this is over is sleep for a week.”

He laughed and tapped her on the nose. “You and I both.”

Her fingers twisted in the gauze of her dress. “What about your next student?” 

Tilting her chin up, he kissed her before saying, “I’m rethinking _Paon Deux_ ’s methods.”

Lashes slowly lifting, she gazed into unfamiliar eyes. “What are you saying, Draco?”

“I’ve noticed my father taking less interest in the business, and I can’t even begin to run it on my own.” He shrugged, for once shy about what he was asking. “I don’t suppose you would consider being part of _Paon Deux_?”

“Me?” She stepped away from him to clear her head. “But I can’t dance.”

Draco laughed at that. “Of course you can, love. Look at what you’ve been doing for the past two months. No ordinary witch could have pulled that off, and you know it.”

She frowned. “What would I do? I can’t instruct dance in any way.”

“Are you saying the job is too much for you? You’re not the Hermione Granger I know, then,” he baited her.

In a rare show of immaturity, she playfully stuck her tongue out at him. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m still a novice compared to you and many of the people here. I’m not a peacock, either.”

Draco snagged her about the waist, wrapping his arms around her possessively. “Oh, but you are, my little bird. You are the most colourful, the most spectacular specimen I have laid eyes on.” He caressed her braided crown. “No ordinary plumage for you.”

 _Last call for Rumba!_

“Blasted,” Draco snarled. “I didn’t even hear the first call.” Releasing all but her hand, he pulled her towards the entrance and onto the floor, where they once again took their place amongst several couples.

Correct bending and straightening of the knees to create hip motions were the key to Rumba; extension of the ankles and pointing of the toes of the non-supporting foot enhanced the line of a figure. Rumba demonstrated the unique love and attraction between a man and a woman, and was based around the concept of a lady's pursuit of the man, with the steps representing the woman's charm. Hermione danced around Draco, her steps quick and withdrawn, as he followed her. It often reminded her of their practice time, casually flirting with one another and his subtle pursuit of her. The dance was considered very sensual and she felt like they were practically making love in front of the entire audience. 

Everything was going well until Hermione’s knee began to ache abominably, causing her to misstep. Draco squeezed her side to let her know that he would support her as best he could without altering the dance too much. Her genuine smile faded into one that was forced, and he had to think quickly or risk her faltering further. 

Pulling her close, he dipped her low and murmured, “I love you.”

She gasped but did not hesitate with the next move, executing it flawlessly. They had one more sequence left, and while it was performed with a few stiff moves, they finished to a standing ovation. Draco stepped away and bowed low to her, letting Hermione soak up all the praise that was her due, smiling unrepentantly at her beaming expression. The applause lasted for at least five minutes. 

There was one more set to be danced by another group, then the final tally would be made, and the winners announced. Draco led them to a room that had been closed off from spectators and dancers alike, slipped inside, and quietly shut the door. It was dark, so he cast _Lumos_ , producing a soft pulsing light that lit their faces. 

Only for him to see Hermione in tears. “I’m so sorry, Draco.”

He laid his wand down and pulled her close, cradling her, pressing his cheek against her hair. “I’m not sure what for, love. You were brilliant.” He punctuated his thoughts with a kiss to her temple.

“There were so many mistakes! My knee hurt so badly, I just couldn’t put any weight on it after a certain point.” She clutched at his shoulders, burying her nose against his neck. “I know I wasn’t supposed to react, and I tried not to, but—”

His lips silenced her, exploring her mouth thoroughly, stopping only so he could reassure her. “Don’t think about it. To everyone that counts, you were a complete professional.” He dropped to his knees and carefully lifted her voluminous skirt, spotting his mark on her inner thigh. “To me, you were and always will be radiant.”

He spread her thighs further, delighting in her whimper and latched onto the bite mark, suckling it until she was fisting strands of his hair in her hands, incoherent with lust. When her legs started giving way, he pushed aside the crotch of her knickers and swiped his fingers over her damp core, flicking her clit.

“Draco!” Her shout sounded loud in the small room.

He dropped her skirt and stood, holding onto her hips so she wouldn’t collapse. “Feel better?”

After testing the stability of her knee, she gave him a lopsided grin. “This is becoming a habit.”

He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “I hope so.”

She leaned into his touch. “I love you, too.”

“I know,” he said smugly. She swatted at him, but he sidestepped her assault. “That’s uncalled for. I was just stating the truth.”

“Must you be so self-assured about it?”

“Of course. Would you want me any other way?”

She studied him in the dim light. “I would love to have you in any and every way.”

He bowed over her hand, kissing it. “As my lady wishes.”

***

All the couples that had participated stood on the dance floor awaiting the results of the competition... and the prize money from Jules Laurent. Draco and Hermione were in the third row, next to a couple from Italy. 

The head judge, a rotund man with a handlebar moustache and a keen interest in footwork, approached the podium, pointed his wand at his throat, and cast _Sonorous_ so that he could be heard by everyone.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and esteemed guests. We are proud to present the winners of this year’s _La Grande Danse_!”

The crowd erupted into applause, everyone eagerly awaiting the outcome.

Making a spectacle of opening the envelope, the judge intoned, “In third place, we have Christian Libfeld and Sarah Berger!”

A couple extracted themselves from the group and quickly made their way to the stage, where they were gifted with a satin sash, flowers, and a medal. They bowed graciously, smiling at the applause, then moved off to the far left of the platform.

“In second place, an unprecedented event, ladies and gentlemen!” The judge mopped his brow. “In their premier showing, the second place winners are Hermione Granger and Alex Elssler!”

Shaking, Hermione looked at Draco with a mixture of pain and gratitude, but his brilliant smile eased the hurt fluttering in her chest. They approached the stage amidst the shouts and roars of the crowd, the chant of _Granger_ bringing tears to her eyes. She glanced quickly at Kingsley, who simply nodded and clapped. 

“You were exceptional, Miss Granger,” the judge said as he handed them their sash, flowers and medals. “And you as well, Mister Elssler.” 

They thanked the judge and moved to stand next to the other couple, Draco keeping a firm hand on her elbow. “I’m very proud of you,” he whispered to her. He was _definitely_ going to speak to the judges afterward. He knew Hermione should have won. 

She smiled, still shaking. “I wish I could’ve won for you.”

“Nonsense. You didn’t do this for me. It was for yourself. You should be bloody proud. Never has an amateur dancer ranked this high in their first competition.”

Nodding, she squeezed his hand. “I am rather pleased with myself.” 

“And now, tonight’s first place contestants!” The judge mopped his brow once more, and Hermione had the insane urge to giggle at his actions. “The winners of _La Grande Danse_ are... Isabella Sacerdote and Mikhail Dvorovenko!”

The couple in the first row came forward and presented themselves to less-than-stellar applause, for the crowd had clearly chosen their favourites. But it made no difference, at least not to Isabella. Before she reached the judge, she gave Hermione a sidelong glance that was so superior, Hermione felt the other girl could have given Lucius lessons in vanity.

“I knew this was our night!” Isabella crowed, casting a _Sonorous_ on herself, which irritated the judge. “And Mikhail was _fantástico_!” She wrapped her arms around her partner and fervently kissed him... without removing the amplification charm. The sounds of their snogging turned quite a few spectators green.

Disgusted with the display, Draco leaned over and whispered to Hermione, “Watch this.” Concentrating on Sacerdote, he murmured, “ _Accio Lucius’ hair_.” 

A single strand unfurled from Isabella’s head, unbeknownst to her or anyone, and floated towards Draco, who caught and pocketed it. Hermione watched, eyes wide with mirth, while the woman continued to blather on about how fortunate she was to have found _Paon Deux_ , and how without them, her dream would have never come true. It made Hermione want to retch.

Annoyed beyond reason, the judge forcefully regained his voice and glared at Isabella and Mikhail, instructing them to perform their winning dance once more. She smiled brilliantly and made to step down from the podium...

...only to twist her ankle and fall face first to the dance floor, shocked gasps from the crowd filling the air. 

“She was as clumsy as Trelawney _with_ her glasses,” Draco said, feeling no remorse for having retrieved his father’s gift. “While she could dance somewhat, she would’ve never made it through the preliminaries without Minister Sacerdote lining someone’s pockets.”

Hermione didn’t know whether to feel sorry for the woman currently crying while she struggled to stand, or feel vindicated that Karma was indeed a vicious bitch. “They can heal her quickly enough, though.” She watched as several Healers cast spells about the witch’s ankle.

“I know, and it’s a bloody shame.”

“Draco,” Hermione admonished gently. “That could’ve been me.”

He snorted and shook his head. “Perish the thought. You were awkward, but at least you knew how to walk without becoming a menace to everything in your path.”

With the tournament over, everyone was standing to leave and Draco thought it the perfect opportunity to speak to the judges, especially since the so-called winner was not deserving of the accolade. He started towards the stage, but spied Shacklebolt approaching Hermione, and decided he would wait to hear what her employer would have to say about her performance.

“Minister,” Hermione greeted with a nod.

The tall wizard looked at her with a calculating eye. “You’ve changed, Hermione.”

Her spine immediately stiffened. “Not really. I just changed my eating habits. Got some exercise. Worked my arse off. You know, those things my boss said I should do so that I could win him some Galleons.”

He took exception to that. “This was too great an opportunity to miss. That money could have rebuilt the Ministry!” he argued. 

“At my expense!”

“What do you mean?” Draco interrupted. He glanced between Hermione and Kingsley, not liking the feeling crawling over his skin.

“I was sent to _Paon Deux_ to learn how to dance, because Kingsley here had entered me into the competition based on the knowledge that I had danced with Viktor Krum back in fourth year.” She was fuming now. “What he hadn’t accounted for was the fact that I literally couldn’t dance. Ginny Weasley had cast a _Decorus Tripudio_ charm on me for that evening.”

“Oh, that’s priceless,” Draco said with a sneer aimed at Kingsley. “You offered up your best employee, a valuable asset, on a whim? How is it you’re still Minister?”

“Who are you?” Kingsley demanded. 

Draco held out his hand. “Alex Elssler.”

“Well, Alex Elssler, keep your mouth shut in regards to issues you know nothing about!”

“Stop!” Hermione shouted, insinuating herself between the two men who looked ready to maul each other. “I lost; there’s nothing that can be done about it.”

“You didn’t lose, Hermione,” Draco pleaded. He glanced towards the judges, seeing them in heated discussions with several other contestants.

“Yes, I did.” Stepping close, she brushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear and smiled. “It’s all right. I know I did my best and I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He bent low to kiss her, but raised voices the judges’ podium made him pause.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I beg your pardon.” The head judge looked flustered to the point he was going to pass out. “There has been a major violation to the code of conduct this evening!”

The people that were exiting stopped and filed back into the main arena, rapt with attention. So did all the contestants.

“It has recently been brought to my attention that a certain person has engaged in poor sportsmanship. Isabella Sacerdote, will you please come forward.”

The two Healers surrounding Isabella hefted her up, carried her to the stage, and directed her to a chair. Hair askew, a pronounced limp, and a flushed face made Isabella look nothing like the winner she thought she was. 

“Per the testimony and corroboration of several eye-witnesses, you, Miss Isabella Sacerdote, were observed attacking Miss Hermione Granger earlier this afternoon, possibly eliminating her from the competition through a physical altercation, which is conduct unbecoming of a contestant... and as a young lady,” the judge reprimanded the now visibly shocked Isabella. “I have conferred with the other judges, and we have unanimously agreed to strip you of your title and award _La Grande Danse_ championship to Hermione Granger and Alex Elssler.” 

There was a brief moment of silence, before the auditorium burst into thunderous applause and cheer. Hermione was too stunned to respond.

“Hermione, you won!” Draco said loudly, trying to shake her from her stupor. 

“I won?” It was starting to sink in. “I won,” she whispered. Overwhelmed, she did the one thing she promised herself that she would never do.

She promptly fainted.

***

The first thing she heard was the jumble of voices surrounding her. When they started becoming clearer, Hermione pried one of her eyes open. “What happened?”

Draco was instantly by her side, helping her sit up. “You still look peaked.” He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. “How are you feeling?”

She assumed she was in the makeshift infirmary, where there were two other contestants nursing strains and one suffering from exhaustion. Blinking, she glanced at all the faces around her bed, her gaze landing on Dvorovenko standing off to the side. 

“My apologies, Miss Granger,” Dvorovenko said in a heavy accent. “Had I known what sort of woman Miss Sacerdote was, I would have never entertained the notion of dancing with her. Please accept my deepest regrets. Should you have need of a partner in the future, you need only ask.” He bowed deeply and then left.

Hermione, Draco, and those gathered, stared after him. “Well, that was...”

“Interesting,” Draco finished. “You just had one of the world’s most premier dancers offer to dance with you at your beck and call.”

“That sounds promising,” Hermione said with a teasing gleam in her eye. 

“You will not even consider it,” Draco growled. He leaned close to her ear. “You’re mine. He will not touch you.”

Harry, Ron and Kingsley exchanged glances at Draco’s heated words. Snape, who was glamoured to look strikingly familiar to Marilyn Monroe, rolled his eyes. 

“Excuse me, but do I know you? You look very familiar,” Harry said, his gaze analysing the lithe man sitting next to his best friend. “Have we met before?”

“Minister, if you don’t mind, I must be going,” the curvy blonde at Kingsley’s side cut in, obviously trying to draw the attention away from his godson. 

“I’d like a word with the Minister, if you don’t mind,” Hermione said. “Alone.”

Taking the hint, Draco shooed the others around the privacy curtain and out the door, remaining just inside the entryway, listening.

“Effective two weeks from today, I am resigning my position with the Ministry,” she said quietly as she removed the arm cuffs from her biceps. “I have done as you asked and won the money.”

“Hermione, don’t—”

“No!” She sat up a little straighter. “I was wrong to let you do this to me in the first place. I won’t ever be put in that position again.”

“Minister Sacerdote said you would be changed by _Paon Deux_ ,” Kingsley lamented.

Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Sacerdote? Isabella’s father?” She shook her head in disgust. “Let me guess. He advised that you send me to _Paon Deux_. And you listened to him, didn’t you?” Tired, aching and annoyed, Hermione swung her legs over the bed and rose on shaky legs. “Alex was right. How you’ve managed to stay in office is beyond me.”

“Now wait just a bloody minute—”

“I will not,” she countered with a mutinous expression. “You want to know how you’ve managed to stay in office so long, Kingsley? Because of me. _Me_! I kept your affairs straight. I made sure you avoided disaster at every turn. I have even lied for you!” She gripped the partition curtain to remain upright. “You’ve used me for the last time, _Minister_. Find someone else to wager on.”

Disregarding his rebuttal, Hermione walked to the door, knowing Draco awaited her on the other side.

***

“Father?” Draco called hesitantly as he entered the library.

There was no answer, which heightened Draco’s unease, and he stepped into the room to scan the area for Lucius. He found him, lounging in front of the fire, his dishevelled appearance and rumey eyes clearly announcing his inebriated state. “Father?” 

Lucius barely glanced at Draco. “So, has the swot won?” He snorted and downed another snifter of his best brandy. 

Draco sat next to him and took the glass out of his hands. “You don’t need this.” 

“Mind your own business!” 

“I am! You _are_ my business!” Draco quickly banished the alcohol. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” 

His jaw tightening, Lucius turned to glare at Draco. “For the past year, I have done nothing but ache here.” He thumped his chest. “I cannot touch my mate. I can’t even see her—only a facsimile of something so precious to me.” He pointed to the picture of Narcissa that he had always conversed with. 

“But you are precious to me, as well, Father,” Draco said quietly. “What can I do to ease your pain?” 

“Let me go,” Lucius whispered, his voice thin. 

Draco grabbed his father’s hand and held tight. “Stay with me, please?” 

Lucius withdrew from the grasp to stand by the large hearth. “Tell me, Draco, if Hermione were to suffer the same fate as your mother, what would you do?” 

The thought of Hermione’s demise sent him around the bend, and Draco had to force himself to relax. “I would kill the perpetrator and then join her. But, if we had children, I would mourn her the rest of my days until I could meet her again.” 

“Why would it matter if you had offspring?” Lucius asked, frowning in confusion. 

Draco rose and came to stand in front of his father. “Because she would want me to watch over them, care for them, love them in her place. To see them happy and beloved.” He smiled softly. “And when it was my time, I envision that she would find me more than willing to go with her.” He placed his hand on Lucius’ shoulder. “Do you hear Mother calling you?” 

Lucius gasped a sob. “No,” he managed. “She is resolutely silent.” 

“Then, maybe it is not your time, yet,” Draco offered. “I still need you.” He moved to embrace Lucius. “ _We_ still need you.” 

The Malfoy men were still clinging to one another when Hermione found them. “I’m sorry, I’ll come back later.” 

“No, please,” Lucius said after he cleared his throat and stepped away from Draco. “I’m glad that you both have returned. Pardon my appearance.” 

Hermione gave him a gentle smile. “You are still very debonair, Lucius Malfoy. I doubt you could ever be anything else.” 

He gave her an appreciative nod. “So, tell me, are congratulations in order?” 

“Sort of.” 

“Yes,” Draco countered, sending her an exasperated look. “The most interesting thing happened.” 

A devious smile broke out on Lucius’ face. “Do tell.” 

They regaled the Malfoy patriarch of the competition, their initial standing, and then the judges' last minute decision. Draco produced Lucius’ reclaimed hair and handed it over to his father. 

“She had a little _accident_ after I removed it.” 

Lucius’ eyebrows rose, a smirk playing about his mouth. “Did she? Most unfortunate.” He murmured a quick _Incendio_ , letting the hair burn out of existence. “Well, Miss Granger, I must say I’m impressed. You exceeded my expectations and mated with my son in the process. What do you have to say for yourself?” 

She grinned at his gruff manner. “Thank you.” 

“ _Thank you?_ We made it feasible for you to win three million Galleons, and all you have to say is _thank you_?” 

“Father,” Draco drawled. 

“Maybe I should explain what ‘thank you’ entails,” Hermione said, coming around the chaise lounge to sit in front of the men. “Thank you for turning an ugly duckling into a swan.” 

“You were never an ugly duckling—” 

“Draco, let the chit speak. I’m interested in what she has to say.” 

She rolled her eyes, but continued. “Thank you for giving me the tools and the knowledge to become something I never dared imagine.” Turning her focus to Lucius, she said, “Thank you for not coddling me, for pushing me beyond my boundaries to find the best in myself.” She shifted her attention to Draco. “Thank you for being patient and caring, for being just as determined as I was, and boosting me when I faltered. That means the world to me.” 

“I do believe she will be good for you, Draco.” 

His son stared at him, incredulous. “Now you tell me that?” 

“I have been telling you that all along, but as usual, you are bent on your own path.” 

Hermione sat back in her chair, shaking her head. “You two are a pair.” 

“A pair of what?” Lucius asked. 

“Nothing.” Hermione chuckled and waved her hand. She stood and yawned. “I, for one, am going to bed. I’m exhausted.” She made to leave, but Draco grabbed her hand in passing. 

“I’ll be with you shortly to discuss some things.” 

She smiled, leaned down, and kissed him. “I’ll see you then.” 

“What things will you be discussing?” Lucius asked after she had closed the door. 

“I want to change the way _Paon Deux_ runs things.” Draco shifted in his seat to face his father. “I know your interest in the company is waning, and I can’t begin to do this on my own, so I’m going to ask Hermione to become an instructor here.” 

“Do you think she is capable?” 

“More than. Besides the dance lessons, she can set written course work that would entail the background of the steps and reasoning behind them. That way, when time comes for the practical application, the transition from knowledge to function will be easier. Also, I thought of reducing the fee and allotted instruction time. It would allow for an increase in student base, even enticing younger people to learn the art.” 

Though the particulars would have to be sorted, the changes had merit. “And what of your mating?” 

Draco grinned. “We may have to change our company name to _Paon Trois_.” 

Lucius smiled for the first time in a long while. “That will be very interesting, indeed.”

***

_Six months later…_

Lucius found the couple in the practice ballroom, swaying to the evocative rhythm of the music playing in the air. Unwilling to disturb them just yet, he leaned against the doorframe and watched his son twirl his future wife away from him before pulling her back to cradle her close. Her back was to his front, and she had a radiant smile only for Draco, who wrapped his arms around her from behind, one hand protectively splayed over her abdomen.

They looked utterly happy together.

They also looked like they were about to mate right in front of him.

“Ahem,” Lucius said, pre-empting Draco and Hermione’s love making.

“Father,” Draco greeted with a smirk. “We were just coming to join you for tea.”

Lucius glanced at the tent in his son’s trousers. “Yes, it’s obvious you were.”

Hermione giggled. “Lucius, we have wonderful news!”

The older Malfoy arched an expectant brow. He had guessed at the news, having observed his son and Granger together, but he was feeling charitable that day and decided to let them tell him in their own time.

“You will be a grandfather next summer.” Draco pressed a kiss to Hermione’s temple and held her close, both beaming like besotted fools.

“My, you two have been busy,” Lucius said discreetly. Of course they had been busy. He had heard them from sunup to sundown, christening every room in the château. It was a wonder she hadn’t been _enceinte_ before now.

Both blushed, but neither seemed repentant—not that they needed to be. “Are you happy, Father?” Draco asked in a worried tone. 

Lucius had promised Draco some months ago that he would wait for Narcissa to call him instead of languishing as he had done for the past year. He had not heard his mate’s call then and he did not hear it now. He would bide his time, though. In the meanwhile, he had a grandchild on the way. 

“I am content, Draco,” he admitted softly. 

“I can accept that.” Draco approached his father, Hermione in tow, and they all embraced. 

Withdrawing, Lucius straightened his vest and crossed his arms. “You may not accept our next student, however.” With the changes to the company came a wide variety of students from all over. 

“They’re here already?” Hermione looked down the long hallway behind Lucius.

“They are waiting in the receiving parlour.” 

The three made their way to the room, and upon opening the door, Draco groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I were,” Lucius drawled as he sat to review the documents that had accompanied the student. “I wonder if we should include Severus in this particular student’s regime...” he mused idly.

This earned a squeak from said student, and Hermione glared at Lucius. “Quit scaring him.”

Lucius sneered. “You are no fun. Draco, how ever did you saddle yourself with such a spoilsport?”

“Lucky, I suspect.” 

“I doubt it.”

“Hey, I’m in the room,” Hermione groused. She shook her head at the blond pair and went to the shy wizard standing before the hearth and hugged him. “So, Neville, are you ready?”

“I think so,” he muttered. 

“Good.” She levitated his bags and indicated he was to follow her, Draco not far behind.

Lucius watched the trio leave and sat back in his chair, his eyes resting on a different picture of his wife. “Draco chose well, love.”

Narcissa smiled softly and nodded, then blew several kisses his way. 

“There is a little one on the way.” He enjoyed the look of unadulterated joy that shined on her face. “I’m sorry I must tarry, but I do so wish to see the child.” He caressed the picture’s cheek. “I know you understand.”

And she did.


End file.
